


grab me by my ankles, been flying for too long

by bravestyles



Series: we were outnumbered. . . this time [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Abuse, Past Suicide Attempt, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Reunions, Self-Harm, Substance Abuse, dubious consent (not between louis and harry), minor descriptions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:07:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24654325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravestyles/pseuds/bravestyles
Summary: Louis and Harry were childhood best friends. When Louis left the country for university, their friendship fell apart, leaving Harry to handle his abusive father on his own. Years later, Louis needs a place to stay, and Harry agrees to let him stay at his flat, where they are forced to confront their past.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: we were outnumbered. . . this time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782544
Comments: 43
Kudos: 111





	grab me by my ankles, been flying for too long

**Author's Note:**

> a few notes:  
> \- title: sky full of song by Florence + the machine  
> \- i did not mean to be gone so long!! i didn't have a laptop for so long, and i'm sorry for my absence  
> \- if i missed any tags, pleases kindly let me know! this story handles some darker things, and i want to be sure i covered all the warnings in the tags :)  
> \- this story is one of four parts.  
> \- this work features past and present scenes. the past scenes are not presented in chronological order

THEN.

Silence has always made Harry uneasy. It leaves him waiting for something bad to happen, for harsh voices or loud noises to bleed through the door. In his experience, silence means something terrible is going to happen, or that it’s already happening. 

Now, though. . . Right now, with Louis staring at him with wide, guilty eyes, Harry clings to the silence. He’s pretty sure he’ll cry if Louis says something else, and he doesn’t want to cry, not now and certainly not in front of Louis. 

It's probably childish, trying not to disrupt the quiet. And when Harry thinks better of it, it’s not silent, not entirely. His heart is hammering loudly in his chest, the constant _thud, thud, thud_ reminding him that he’s very much alive right now, even if he doesn’t particularly want to be. 

Silence is always something temporary, though. It never lasts, just like everything else. And it fades gently when Louis whispers, "Harry, " and more harshly when Harry spits, "Don't, just don't.”

Louis doesn't listen. He never fucking listens, does he? He always has to be the talker, the joker, and Harry's always loved that because it meant he didn't have to talk but now he wants him to shut up and Louis can't even give him that. 

"I'm sorry, okay?” Louis says. “I really am. Believe me." And then Louis' crowding into Harry's space, frantic and so fucking _sorry_. He wraps his arms around Harry's middle and sets his forehead on his shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry."

"If you're sorry," Harry starts, and then stops momentarily when his voice breaks. Once he's sure he can force it to stay together, he begins again. "If you're so fucking sorry, you won't go. You won't leave. You won't leave _me_."

Because that's what it boils down to, isn't it? Louis may be leaving this city, might be leaving his home and his family, but he's mostly leaving Harry. Holmes Chapel won't notice Louis' absence, and neither will his family, not really. They're too busy and tripping over each other all of the time, they won't miss Louis like Harry will. And Harry will, _fuck_ he will. Louis is almost everything he has. And now he's leaving him to go to some fucking fancy college out of the country. He's going to the fucking States and leaving Harry here, in Holmes Chapel, with nothing. 

"I can visit," Louis tries, but it's not enough. Louis can't fucking afford to visit, probably won't even be able to scrape enough money together to come home for Christmas. And that's just. . . Christmas is their thing, it always has been. Since they were kids, they always spent Christmas together. Harry thinks he'll puke if he can't have Louis on Christmas. 

Harry lightly pushes him off. He avoids eye-contact and pulls his knees up to his chest like a hurt child, and he doesn't even care because that's exactly how he feels right now. Hurt and scared and so fucking confused. "I want you to leave. Go. I'll see you tomorrow or something."

Louis looks wounded. _Good,_ Harry thinks selfishly. "You don't actually mean that. Come on, H. Don't push me away."

"Louis, _leave._ " He forces himself to meet Louis' eyes to send the message that he wants to be alone right now. And then Louis looks away and bites harshly on his lip, letting Harry know there's more. Louis isn't just moving away, there's something more, something worse. Something else that's going to make Harry feel weaker than he already does. "What is it now?" he asks hesitantly. He doesn't actually want to know, not really.

Louis sets his hand on Harry's knee and squeezes. It makes Harry's heartbeat steady slightly, makes his lungs open a little more. What the hell is he going to do when he's having a full-blown anxiety attack and Louis isn't there to stop it like he always is?

"I leave next week. I. . . the scholarship I have, it requires me to start in the summer."

 _Then don't go_ , Harry wants to plead, his mind completely skipping over the fact that Louis intentionally left telling Harry until the last minute. _Stay here with me._ Louis could easily go to some other university, one in the same fucking country, one closer to home. But the words stay unsaid because they make him feel stupid, and Harry forces himself not to cry. 

A week. Seven days. That sounds unbearable, yet it's all going to be coming to life shortly. Sixteen years of friendship is going to be forced to wrap up in a single week. Harry's not stupid; Louis' going to run off to university and make all these new friends who can actually make him happy, make him feel safe. He's not going to hold on to some childhood friendship with a fucked up kid in high school. 

But it's exactly what Louis promised him. When Louis was sixteen and Harry was fourteen, Louis had promised him that he'd take a two-year gap year before uni so they could go together. Harry told him it was stupid, and Louis had grabbed his chin roughly and told him it wasn't, that they were going to get out of their fucked up situations together. He had promised Harry that they were going to reach happiness together, and now Harry's going to be stuck in England, sad and lonely. 

"Please say something," Louis whispers, sounding afraid. 

For a moment, Harry thinks he's not going to. That he's going to be silent and strong and that he's going to be able to act like this doesn't bother him like he does with everything else. But he can't, so he asks, "What the hell am I going to do without you, Louis?"

Louis' face contorts in sorrow. "You're going to be fine," he says sternly. He grabs Harry's face with both hands and presses his thumbs into Harry's cheekbones. "You're going to be fine, you hear me? You're strong, Haz, you can do this without me. I know you can."

"You don't know that." He should stop talking, he should, because he's so close to crying. "I've never had to do this without you before. _Never_. I can't do this without you, I can't." His hands are shaking so badly and out of pure instinct he clutches onto Louis' wrists. It's what he's used to, seeking out steadiness within Louis. He's going to be screwed when Louis leaves. 

"You can. You _will_."

"I call you when I'm having a panic attack," Harry gasps out, voice shaking. It's too late to stop, so he doesn't try to. "I go to your house when my parents are fighting or my dad is getting rough with me, I text you when I can't sleep, you hold me when I'm sad, you -- God, Louis, you were the only thing that stopped me from killing myself a year ago. How can you -- I would've done it. I would have fucking jumped, I would've -- "

"No you wouldn't have," Louis snaps. "Don't fucking talk like that, you know I don't like it."

"I would've," he disagrees, feeling hysterical. And he would've. He was going to. But Louis had somehow, someway figured out what he was going to do and found him on the ledge of some obscure stupid bridge at two o'clock in the morning because he _had a feeling something was wrong_. But maybe he wouldn't have, maybe Louis' right like always, because he didn't. He let himself be stopped. 

His fingers dig into Louis' wrists and the first sob comes ripping out of his throat. He clenches his eyes shut tight, another sob tearing through him. "I should've," he cries, "fuck, I should've, I should've -- "

"Don't say that," Louis says, shocked. He gathers Harry in his arms and Harry goes with it even though he doesn't want to, even though he wants to push Louis away. Harry cries and cries and cries into Louis' neck, his fingers gripping tight on his shirt. "You said you wouldn't do that to me,” Louis reminds quietly. “Don't go back on that. You can't leave me."

"But now _you're_ leaving _me_ ," Harry snaps, as best as he can like this.

Louis lets the words linger in the air for a long time. He doesn't try to deny them this time, doesn't try to defend himself. He just holds Harry until Harry can fucking pull himself together. He does, eventually. Probably only lasted three minutes; usually, he can stop himself from crying. Has to. His father doesn’t like it.

"You can still call me when you need me," Louis says quietly after Harry's stopped crying. Harry wipes at his cheeks and pulls back from his arms. He stays close, though. "I'll always be there for you, love. You know that."

Harry nods. He does know that. Maybe it's hard to believe right now, but it has to be true. It has to be. 

"You can go to someone else’s when your dad's being an asshole," Louis tells him. And it's quieter than before because Harry's dad, Mike, is just across the hall. “You have loads of other friends. They'll support you, too."

More tears burn Harry's eyes. They sting and make him feel like an idiot. He slides his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands in a lame attempt at making himself feel less exposed. "Nobody else knows."

The only people in Harry's life that know his father is abusive is Gemma, his mother, Louis, and Louis’ mum. That's it. Five people out of billions know what Harry goes through every single night of his life. 

"You could tell them."

Harry looks at him sharply. "Don't be fucking stupid." 

"Right. Sorry." Louis bites at his thumb nail before offering, "You could still go to my house. My mum would be more than happy to let you stay overnight. And besides, my bedroom will be open."

The reminder knocks Harry back down about a hundred feet. Louis' going to be gone. In a _week_. Jesus fucking Christ. Louis must notice because he gathers Harry back in his arms and this time, he gently pushes him to lay down. Harry lets himself be coddled and cuddled without any protest because soon, nobody is going to be there to hold him.

-

Acting as a bad omen, both boys wake to the sound of glass shattering and loud shouts. Harry wakes first; even in his sleep, he's on high alert. Most times, if he so much as hears his father's voice through the door, he wakes up. 

Another loud crash followed by a, “ _You stupid fucking bitch_.” Harry's eyes snap open, breath stuck at the bottom of his lungs. He curls his fingers tightly around Louis' sleeves since his arms are still wrapped around Harry. His heart is racing fast, and his eyes are desperately trying to focus on something other than the light peeking through the crack at the bottom of his door. It's too dark, though. It's too damn dark. 

He feels it when Louis wakes. The body behind him tenses and its arms tighten around Harry instinctively. Louis doesn't get scared, not like Harry. Alert and careful and quiet, maybe, but only because Harry's taught him to be like that at times like this. 

"You awake?" Louis asks, voice low and scratchy with sleep. Breath fans the back of his neck, and it's something for Harry to focus on that isn't what’s going on outside of his bedroom door. 

"Yes," he grits out. "Can we go? Please?"

Louis nods and then they climb out of bed quietly. Judging by the light barely showing itself through the window, it's early morning and it's going to be cold out, so Harry hands Louis one of his sweatshirts. They pull them on silently. Harry ignores the fact that Louis knows to avoid the floorboard to the left of Harry's closet because it creaks. 

After getting their sweatshirts on and grabbing their phones, they're about to make their exit out the window when a low meow sounds from beneath Harry's bed. Louis bends down, gets on his hands and knees, and pulls a scared looking Theo out from under the bed. 

"Shh, bud, it's fine," Louis says once Theo meows again. He gets back up, cat in hand, and nods at Harry. "Let's go, love."

Harry can’t believe this might be the last time they do this. 

"You were supposed to wait for me," Harry says without thinking. Too loudly, too, and they both stare at each other with wide eyes for a few seconds, both cringing as they wait to see if it brought attention to them. Once the moment passes and they're safe, Louis presses a kiss to Theo's brown fur and turns.

He slides the window open, sticks one leg out with little preamble, and Harry quickly comes up behind him to make sure he doesn't fall. Harry's fingers dig into Louis' arms as Louis carefully swings his other leg out and then jumps, arms tight around Theo. And like always, Harry's breath disappears in his lungs as he has leans out the window to make sure Louis' okay. The drop is only a few feet, but something could still happen. 

Louis sets Theo down on the ground. They both watch with fond smiles as Theo plops on the cement and starts rolling around happily. And then there's another loud shout in the kitchen and Harry jolts in fear before he’s basically shoving himself out of the window. 

Small hands cradle the back of his knee, one on the back of his calf, then his lower back and his shoulder and neck. They seem like they're everywhere at once; each burn a hole into his clothes and whisper a melodramatic _one more week_ as they fade. And they fade fast. Too fast. By the time Harry's on his feet, Louis squeezes the back of his neck with a soft smile that's sculpted by the shadows of early morning and then it's gone, and he knows it very well could be the last time Louis touches him so softly.

"I'm gonna miss you, you know," Harry says, because it almost feels like he has to. 

Louis smiles at him again. "Don't be such a sap, H.”

NOW. 

The music is loud enough that it makes his ear ring. It’s something he’s grown used to, so it barely makes him flinch now. The ringing will get drowned out eventually, when he’s high and drunk and barely able to stay upright. He’ll be reminded by it when he’s being helped into a taxi by some stranger he’s goign to fuck tonight, when it’s all he can hear and it makes his brain hurt. For now, though, it’s a part of the background. 

An arm wraps itself around his waist, and even though he doesn't know who it is at first, he leans back into them, pliant. By now, he’s nursing his third drink, and if he was anymore sober, he would've jumped at the touch. Now, he just tilts his head back against the person's shoulder, feeling overly chuffed about the fact whoever it is is tall enough for him to do so. 

"Uh-oh," a teasing voice says, "someone's already a bit wasted."

"Shut up, Nick," he grumbles. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath; come to think of it, yeah, he can smell Nick's cologne. He smiles at the familiarity and pats at Nick's hand. "If I can't find anyone to screw me tonight, you promise you'll do it?"

Nick tightens his grip around Harry and laughs. "I don't know, love, that seems like a terrible burden for me to have to carry." It makes Harry laugh, too. They've fucked so many times that Harry's pretty sure he could pick Nick's cock out of a line-up. 

They stay like that for a few minutes, Harry wrapped up in Nick's arms as they sway lazily, Harry only moving to take a sip of his drink every few minutes. A third song comes on and Harry's drink is empty, so he pulls away in search of another. Before he can go very far, Nick tugs him back. 

"Want one?" Nick asks, extending a hand carrying three purple pills. Harry doesn't care what they are; he stopped caring enough to ask a while ago. It's probably ecstasy, although it could easily be something else. Harry nods, reaching out to take all three, and Nick quickly slaps his hand away. "I said _one_ , are you _trying_ to OD?"

Harry shrugs, biting on his bottom lip. He waits out that concerned look he always gets from Nick -- eyebrows slightly furrowed, eyes squinted, lips pursed -- before Nick sighs and hands him one. Harry takes it willingly and without anything to chase it down with. 

"That's going to fuck you up," Nick warns, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he puts the other two pills back away. "Don't leave without telling me, okay? So I know you're not passed out in the bathroom or, like, talking to the walls in the alley or something."

As a promise, or maybe just to be annoying and overly-invasive like he always is, he kisses Nick on the lips, hard, before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Nick to deal with the lines Harry always blurs.

-

Nick was right: he does get pretty fucked up, and pretty quickly, too. 

Within twenty minutes, everyone and everything is blurring together and he's stumbling around, feeling too light for gravity to handle. Nobody seems too bothered, mostly because everyone else at the club is high, too, and because he's cute enough to get away with it. 

He quickly gets scooped up by a guy willing to deal with his reckless behavior. They dance for a long while, even when Harry can't properly see straight and he keeps accidentally stepping on the guy's -- Andy's -- foot and he accidentally bites too hard on his lip. Andy is a bit older, so he's probably seasoned in all this party-going and used to stupid twenty-three year old's drinking too much for their own good.

"Do you want to come home with me?" Andy asks, about an hour and four drinks later. Harry's exhausted and still terribly high, but he manages to remember Nick's one rule. He slumps all his weight against Andy involuntarily, and Andy laughs, catching him easily. "I've got you, I've got you."

"I need to text my mate," he slurs, tucking his face in Andy's neck and breathing deeply. It somehow makes him feel even more intoxicated, and he thrives off of it. "And then you can take me home, so long as you're topping."

Andy laughs again. "Obviously. I doubt you're even going to get hard."

Harry pouts, although he knows Andy's probably right so he doesn't say anything. He shimmies his phone out of his too-tight jeans, clutching onto Andy tightly for support. He opens it, the light blinding him and making him even more dizzy. 

"Are you sure you're not too far gone?" Andy asks when Harry sways a little dramatically. "I don't want to, like, take advantage of you."

"You're not," Harry says, tightening his hold on Andy once again. He blinks hard before looking back down at his phone, and he sees five texts from his mother, which makes him frown and contemplate the idea of hallucinations. He hasn't talked to his mum in. . . five months, probably. To make his confusion worse, she's also called him twice and left a voicemail. He feels like he could actually pass out.

"Let's sit you down, yeah?" Andy asks, and he sounds worried and sweet, now, nothing like the person that was whispering how badly he wanted to fuck him until he cried a few minutes ago. Harry doesn't protest -- he's pretty sure he can't walk on his own, anyway -- and allows himself to be sat down in a booth. His head is swimming, and Andy quickly catches him before he accidentally bounces it off the table. 

"I'm fine," he mumbles, although he continues to cling onto him, even while he's sitting. Anxiety is bubbling up his throat, and goddammit, Harry can get wasted enough to drown out his sadness, but never his anxiety. Being anxious was practically a survival tactic for eighteen years, a little bit of maybe-ecstasy and a few drinks isn't enough to stomp it out of him. 

Still, he manages to push it aside and make the rational decision to ignore Anne. She's alive, his dad hasn't killed her yet, and that's all he really needs to sleep at night. 

"Why don't you text your friend to take you home, yeah?" Andy tells him, and immediately, Harry retaliates. He twists into Andy's side, forgetting about his phone as he lets it slide onto the table. Ungracefully, he pulls himself onto Andy's lap and starts sucking bruises on his neck. It's a little hard to get his lips and teeth to cooperate, but he seems to do well enough for Andy to gain interest in him again and forget about seeing him as a pity-deserving kid. 

"You promised to fuck me," Harry whispers, licking over a faint bruise he's created. 

"Fuck," Andy groans, and Harry thinks he's won, that he's going to get fucked nice and hard by Andy tonight and he'll wake up satisfied in the morning, exactly the mindset he'll need to deal with whatever his mother wants. But then Andy is pushing him off and telling him that he's not going to screw someone who can barely keep his eyes open, and Harry sighs, laying back in the booth. He hasn't won: he's lost, and he's always been a sore loser, so he ignores Andy's line of questioning ( _"Who'd you come with? What do they look like? What's their name so I can call them for you? Are you seriously going to make me leave you like this?"_ ) and stares at the ceiling instead, head so fuzzy he swears the tiles move.

Probably only a few minutes later, Nick finds them. He laughs, and Harry watches through bleary eyes as Andy narrows his eyes at him. 

"You think this is funny, mate?" Andy asks, his hand tightening on Harry's ankle. "I'm supposed to be out having fun, but I've had to babysit your stupid friend all night." If Harry didn't know better, he'd think Andy, a stranger, is worried about him. 

Somehow, after Andy threatens to knock Nick's teeth out and Nick mutters that Harry gets him into more trouble than he's worth, Harry falls asleep (blacks out?) and wakes up to Nick laying him down. It's his own bed, Harry realizes, and he groans quietly. 

"Good," Nick says, sounding overly cheerful. "You're awake."

Harry huffs. His mind is a bit clearer, but all the bits of sobriety he's gained does is leave space for the sadness. He rolls over onto his stomach, not wanting to look Nick in the eye, but Nick rolls him back over to his side and tells him he has to stay like that so he doesn't choke on his own vomit in the middle of the night. 

Harry frowns at what that means. "You aren't staying the night?" He hates how pathetic he sounds, but he doesn't want to be alone, especially after being rejected tonight. 

"Do you want me to?"

Harry nods, and Nick sighs before taking off his shoes and jacket and crawling into bed. He comes up behind Harry and tucks his knees behind Harry's and pulls him closer, petting at his hair. 

After a few minutes, Harry sighs. "You promised you'd fuck me if I didn't pull anyone." 

At first, Nick seems a little hesitant. After Harry asks nicely enough times, Nick complies. He pulls Harry apart with his fingers and puts him back together again with long, sharp thrusts, and Harry lays back and takes it, eyes half-closed as Nick draws pathetic pants from him. Nick comes and Harry doesn't, because Andy was right, he can't even get hard. It feels nice enough, it does the job of plugging the holes that being sober leaves for the darkness to push through, and it makes Harry feel wanted, and really, that's all he can ask for anymore. 

-

In the morning, he wakes with a pounding headache, Nick's sweaty body pressed up against his, and three more texts from his mum. He's far too sober to let himself ignore it any longer, so he shoves himself back under Nick's arm and listens to the voicemail she left last night. 

_"Hiya, Harry. It's Mum. I've got something to talk to you about if you could ring me. It's nothing bad, don't worry. I've texted you a few times, but you must be out and about somewhere doing it is whatever you get up to these days. I miss you, baby. I understand why you don't want to visit, but can you at least call me every once and a while? Alright, baby, I've got to go. Call me as soon as possible. I hope you're well. Bye."_

Relieved, Harry takes a long, deep breath. She's fine, she's well, she just wants to talk. She's not in the hospital due to getting knocked around too hard, and she's not on the run looking for somewhere safe to spend the night before she inevitably goes back to Mike. She's fine. 

Still, anxiety wraps itself around his heart and squeezes as if it's trying to protect him, and he's forced to get out of bed to light himself a cigarette, finding Nick’s pack in the kitchen. He’s not that much of a smoker -- tobacco, anyway -- but he’s not above it. He sets his forehead on the cool counter and takes a few deep breaths before getting the courage to call her back.

"Hey, baby," she answers, and the same burning, furious anger is bright in his stomach like it always is when he's talking to her. It's why he doesn't call. He hates how he blames her for everything, because, logically, he understands the only one to blame for the abuse is his father and maybe his father's parents, but shit. Anne could've left him. She should have left him the first time he ever laid his hands on Harry forcefully, which was when he was three years old. He doesn’t remember it, but his mum once told him that Harry had accidentally broken his favorite toy and he wouldn't stop crying, so his father slapped him with the back of the hand so hard that Harry sported a bruise for two weeks. She should've left him then. She should've loved Harry enough to leave. Instead, she forced Harry to endure fifteen more years of it. 

"Hi," he forces out, and it earns him another drag. The smoke feels good as it claws at his lungs. 

"I'm on my lunch break right now, so I've got about fifteen minutes to talk. How are you, honey?"

There's an edge to her voice that he doesn't appreciate. He can't tell if it's an accusation about the fact Harry didn't wake until one o'clock in the afternoon, or if it's condescending and she knows he hasn't been doing anything good for him. 

"I'm fine," he says, snapping ever-so-slightly. But then he's consumed with guilt because _how dare_ he snap at his mother who works sixty hours a week and lives with a husband as shitty as Mike. He should be grateful she's even willing to talk to him, considering he left her alone with him. When Gemma moved out during Harry’s last year of high school, she was crushed, and so was Harry. Mike never hit Gemma, but somehow, her leaving triggered him to hurt Harry and Anne even more. He thinks that's enough justification to resent and ignore his sister, but nothing could ever justify him being mean to his mother who's already worn too thin. 

"That's good," she says softly.

Harry rubs a hand down his face. "What was it that you wanted to talk about? I -- I'm pretty busy today, I'm sorry. We can talk another time." They won't, Harry knows they won't, but at least he's offering. 

"Oh, that's okay." She sounds upset. "That's alright, baby. I just -- you're still living in that flat in London, right?"

"Yeah." At least for now, because he's not exactly certain how he can afford it for much longer. He works at some shitty record shop that gives him enough money to stretch enough to make ends-meet, but they're closing down in about a month and he hasn't looked for a new job yet. He still has some money left over from his university fund, though. The only reason he hasn’t touched that yet is because he knows his mum will see it and start to worry about him. 

"Oh, that's great. I'm happy for you." She's not; she nearly strangled him when he told her he was moving out, but he couldn't fucking take it anymore. He got a decent scholarship to a university that he's since dropped out of, and he couldn't take hiding black eyes and nursing wounds in his bathroom anymore. He just couldn't. "Well, listen, Harry. Louis' _finally_ got his nursing license transferred to the UK, and -- "

"What?" He feels breathless, but also extremely annoyed. Why is she talking to Louis? He knows she's kept up with her friendship with Louis’ mum as much as Mike allowed, but he didn't know that extended to Louis. Harry hasn't talked to Louis in. . . God, _years_ , and the way Anne said _'finally'_ makes him think she's been in contact with him for a while. Maybe she never stopped talking to him, maybe it was easier for Anne and Louis to remain in contact than it was for him and Harry.

"He needs a place to stay for right now," she says, a little quieter, most likely taking Harry's interruption as a sign of annoyance at her taking too long to get to the point instead of shock. "Just for about a month or two, until he figures out if he likes his job here and this is for sure the move he wants to make. You know how hard he's worked for this, how much help he has been to his family."

"Fuck that," he snaps, infuriated. He stands up straight and stubs out his cigarette against the countertop. "He _left_ , he left _me,_ he -- "

"Do not start that," she tells him sternly, like he's being ridiculous. "Don't tell me you're as selfish as your father." It stings, and it stings even more knowing that was her intention. "Harry, you know how poor the Tomlinsons are. Louis going to school for an education that'd get him into a good career was their only chance at getting out of debt and into a better life for the girls. He's only been working for -- what? Two or three years? And he's already helped them so much."

Harry's eyes burn. "He didn't have to go all the way to America for college."

"Ohio State was the only college offering him a full-ride, Harry, you _know_ this." She sounds so disappointed in him, and he doesn't even care. "He didn't have a choice in leaving, but he wants to come home. Can you imagine being away for so long? He barely gets to visit; the girls have grown up right under his nose, and he missed it all. He wants to be closer to them."

"I don't really care what he wants, Mum," Harry says, pressing his fingers into his eyes, hard, demanding them not to cry. 

"Harry. Please do this, for me."

"Oh, fuck you," he snaps, shaking his head. "I don't need to do anything for you. You have no right to do that to me."

"He has nobody else -- "

"You're seriously trying to tell me he has no other friends in London?" 

"One or two, yes, but he hasn't talked to them in years and -- "

"He hasn't talked to _me_ in years!"

Anne sighs loudly. "Harry, you're the only one who he feels comfortable going to for help. You know how hard-headed he is. You should be happy he still trusts you so much."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Then why isn't he the one asking me?"

"Because I told him you'd act like this."

"Act like _what?_ "

"A fucking child," she snaps, and he saw it coming, but it still causes him to flinch. "You're never going to grow up, are you? You're twenty-three years old. You're father is right; you'll never be man enough to -- "

He hangs up, hands trembling, and tosses the phone onto the countertop like it's on fire. He tells himself a few times that it's alright, that he knew she'd say that, that she didn't say anything he didn't deserve, but no amount of self-reassurance is enough to convince air to go back into his lungs. He sits down on the kitchen floor, sets his back against the counter, and tries to breathe. It's as simple as that -- just waiting it out and trying to breathe. 

Harry doesn't even hear Nick come into the kitchen, but he does hear him sit down next to Harry. He stays a few feet away and doesn't do anything stupid like try and touch him, because he's been around for a few of Harry's panic attacks. Over the years, they've never got any less frequent, even when he’s three hours away from his father. It's fucking stupid, and Nick cares, but he doesn't care enough to learn how to help. 

After about eight minutes, Harry's lungs start to behave normally and his hands get a little less numb. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair and closes his eyes. 

"You can go," he says, voice hoarse. "Thanks for last night."

"Any time, Haz," Nick says. He gives Harry an awkward pat on the back before standing and he goes, and Harry idly wonders how he used to need Louis or anyone for any of this. He's made it perfectly fine on his own.

THEN. 

His lip won't stop bleeding, no matter how hard he sucks on it or how much pressure he puts on it with his sleeve. He wouldn't be surprised if his nose is broken, and his head is throbbing with how hard he was slammed against the wall, and he wants Louis' help right now more than he wants to breathe.

But Louis' in Ohio, thousands of miles away, and not answering his cell phone, no matter how many times Harry calls. He's been walking around the streets aimlessly for about an hour, and he keeps almost getting lost and Theo is getting grumpy in his arms, and he doesn't have anywhere to go. The Tomlinsons weren't home when he checked about forty-five minutes ago, so he's stuck walking around bleeding, hoping that nobody stops him in concern. He wonders if he'll have to sleep on a park bench, or somewhere else. 

After trying Louis again and getting no answer, Harry decides to go back to the Tomlinson's house to see if they're back home yet. He can't imagine them being out much longer; it's near eleven thirty now. It's summer -- that's why Mike got so rough, so bold, because Harry isn't obligated to go anywhere tomorrow -- so it's not unlikely they'll be out late, but Phoebe and Daisy are still young and there's no way Jay would want to handle them all for that long. Or maybe he's just hoping that out of the desire to be somewhere safe.

Either way, their beat-up blue car is in the drive and the house is lit up, and Harry nearly cries with relief. He kisses the top of an angry Theo's head before knocking on the door quietly. His lip is still bleeding and his head is still pounding and he's terribly close to crying. Jay's going to think he looks pathetic, but he also knows she's seen worse on him before, like the time Louis took him home with a dislocated knee and he refused to go to the hospital until he nearly passed out from the pain. 

She gasps when she opens the door, and it's enough to make him start crying. Shaky, quiet hiccups tumble from his lips, because he's seventeen and scared and he didn't even do anything _wrong_. His dad got mad because his mum opened a package of cheese when there was already one opened, and he slapped her. Harry got scared and jumped up to defend her, something he rarely does because it just makes it worse. Normally, Mike won't do more to her than slap her around a bit, and the argument would've ended if Harry would have just left it, but he pissed him off even more and now he's bleeding and bruised and petrified. 

"Harry, darling, come inside," she says hurriedly, grabbing his shoulders and ushering him in. Theo immediately jumps out of his arms and makes himself scarce somewhere inside the house, probably in search of Louis' room. 

"I'm sorry," he cries, wrapping his arms around himself. He's so fucking stupid, God. "I didn't know where else to go, I don't -- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I -- "

"Hey, hey, stop that," she says sternly. She quickly leads him to the bathroom, shushing him all the while, and sits him down on the toilet. As she cleans up his face, his body aches for Louis. Louis' always been the one to do this, Louis' always so much more gentle, even when it takes a lot longer. He always stopped after he accidentally made Harry hiss in pain and hugged him, apologizing profusely, but Jay doesn't do that. She's gentle enough and nice and asks him to tell her if he's hurting too badly to continue, but she's not Louis. 

"I don't think it's broken," Jay tells him when he asks about his nose. He sometimes forgets she got the majority of the way through nursing school before she dropped out because she was pregnant with Louis. Now, she works at the local bank as a receptionist. "I think you'll be okay. You'll have bruising, obviously, but everything should heal fine."

He nods, glancing down at his feet. "Thank you. I'm so sorry I came here, I just didn't know what else to do."

"Please don't ever apologize for this," she says softly, squeezing his shoulder. "Come here anytime, you know that. You're welcome here whenever. That doesn't change because Louis' gone."

Harry goes to bite on his bottom lip nervously, but stops when he remembers it's injured. "I miss him so much."

"I know you do. Your mum told me." She cards her fingers through his hair, smiling softly at him. "He misses you, too. I'm sure he's told you."

He nods. They talk as much as they can, and every time, Louis lets him know how sorry he is for leaving and how much he wishes he could've stayed. Jay doesn't press him to talk anymore and tells him sternly to go lay down in Louis' bed, like she's worried he might say no. 

He cries again when he crawls into Louis' bed. Louis' _empty_ bed. Louis' not down the hall grabbing a snack or a water bottle for Harry, he's not coming to come cuddle him up any second now. He's alone. Louis left him. The only thing here right now to provide him any comfort is Theo, who's resting comfortably on Louis' pillow. He cries and cries and cries and cries, and doesn't stop until Louis calls him at two o'clock in the morning. 

When he answers the call, the first thing he hears is Louis cursing. 

"I'm okay," Harry says quickly, hating himself for making Louis worry. He should've known better than to call so many times. "I'm okay, Lou."

"Thank fucking God. I'm so sorry, I was sleeping."

Right. Time zones.

"It's okay. Sorry for -- "

"What did he do to you?" Louis demands, anger hot in his voice. Normally Louis can contain his anger because he understands it's not what Harry needs, that Harry's had to deal with too much of it in his life. Maybe not being able to see Harry's bruised skin is making everything different. 

"I'm okay," he says again, voice strained. He doesn't want to talk about it. "Your mum took care of it."

Louis doesn't listen. "No, tell me what he did. What the fuck did he do, Harry? God, I could kill him."

"Why are you acting like this?" he whispers. "I just want you to talk to me, about literally anything else."

Louis sighs and apologizes before talking about his day, about a stupid chemistry lab he cocked up for him and his group, and Harry listens intently, eyes closed tightly and gnawing on his bottom lip, injuring it further. 

Harry doesn't go to Jay for help again after that, except for one other time. It feels too different. Most of the time his dad's mad, he stays in his room with the door locked, until Mike breaks that off. So Harry becomes a free target, and the beatings get worse because Harry doesn't leave anymore. He stops being a coward and faces his reality. After a while, he even stops calling Louis when it happens, because Louis' supposed to be making the most of his time in America and having a sad boy getting the shit beaten out of him by his dad calling him in the middle of the night is sure to put a damper on that. 

NOW. 

He goes out again that night, this time without Nick. He gets just as drunk and just as high, but this time, he manages not to freak out the guy he plans on fucking. His name is Adam, and he's in his mid to late forties at least, and Harry doesn't really care because he seems nice and he calls Harry cute. 

"Are we going back to yours?" Harry asks, panting in Adam's ear. Adam has a hand lodged in the front of Harry's jeans, not doing much more than teasing, and Harry wants more. 

Adam laughs, low and husky. "No, darling. I don't know how my kids would feel about that." Harry whines pitifully, and Adams shushes him. "Hey, none of that. They have bathroom stalls for a reason."

Harry nods in hurried agreement. Adam guides him to the bathroom and they choose a stall that doesn't lock the whole way, but it doesn't matter because soon enough, Adam's fucking him against the door. He's not the best Harry's had, although he's big enough that it doesn't really matter. By some miracle, Harry gets hard, and Adam gets him off before he comes himself, and Harry's always had a soft spot for gentlemen, so he lets Adam key his phone number into his phone for another night. 

He sleeps as soon as he gets home, doesn't even make it to the bed; the couch is good enough. He wakes around four in the morning, three hours after he got home, to the noise of his phone ringing. He usually turns the ringer off before he goes to bed to avoid situations like these, but he didn't tonight and he sighs, shuffling around to find his phone. He's still slightly drunk so the hangover headache isn't terrible yet, and he answers the phone blindly when he finds it, not expecting it to be anybody important. 

"Hello?" he says tiredly, closing his eyes and resting his head against his arm that's resting on the top of the couch. He's still exhausted. 

"Hey, Haz," a voice says, and Harry's mind whirls in search of a face to put to that voice but when he does -- 

" _Shit_ ," he curses, sitting up. Why the fuck didn't he check who was calling? He's so goddamn stupid, he should've known nobody in England would've been calling him at four o'clock in the morning, and the only person he knows out of England is Louis, who's always been terrible with time zones.

"Bad time?" Louis asks, voice showing concern.

Harry closes his eyes again, counts to ten, and releases a deep breath. He's not mad at Louis, he knows he's not. He's not that petty. It's not like they had some huge falling out, they just. Faded. Their friendship was stretched too thin between continents, and Harry had been somewhat okay with that until his mother called asking about Louis. Maybe it was the shock of it that made him act like that, like a _child._ He doesn't know. But if Louis needs him, he's not going to be a stupid little shit and ignore him. Without Louis, he'd be dead, and although that doesn't really mean much to him on most days, he knows he has to let go of whatever childish grudge he has against Louis and allow him to stay with him. Louis didn't purposely hurt him, and doing this -- denying Louis help -- would be purposely hurting him, and he's not going to do that. 

"No, I just -- well, kind of. It's four in the morning."

Louis groans quietly. "Shit, Harry, I'm -- you must've been sleeping, I can let you go, I'm so sorry -- "

"It's okay. I won't be able to go back to sleep now, anyway. What did you -- I mean, my mum mentioned you wanting to stay with me, um, like in my flat. Is that. Is that what you're calling about?" He sounds stupid stumbling over his words, but he's kind of drunk and sad and he just feels -- raw, like he's poked at a sore bruise long enough for it to split the skin open. 

"You don't sound so open to the idea."

Harry frowns and starts picking at a loose thread sticking out from his jacket. "No, it's not that. It's -- you can stay here, it's fine." He can't help but feel like he doesn't believe what he's saying. Maybe he is mad at Louis after all. He can't help but feel like he was abandoned. But how could Louis have abandoned him when there was nothing between them to leave? Clearly, their friendship meant more to Harry than it ever did to Louis, and he's accepted all of this already, so why does he want to shout at Louis until his voice goes hoarse? 

"You did a lot for me as a kid," he hears himself say. "It's the least I can do." 

"That is exactly what I don't want to hear," Louis tells him, sounding tired and upset. "You don't owe me anything. What your dad did -- "

"Don't," Harry interrupts. He hasn't had to talk about his father in years. Probably since he talked to Louis last, even. It's not something he likes talking about, and it's not like his mum is rushing to talk about Mike, either. He doesn't talk to anyone else that would know what he went through as a kid. "Just -- when will you be here?"

There's a stretch of silence like Louis' contemplating accepting Harry's offer, which is annoying. Harry didn't offer anything, he doesn't want to be doing this, so if Louis could be a little more grateful, it'd be great. "Okay," Louis says, although he sounds pained. Harry rolls his eyes. "Is -- my flight is today, but I was going to visit my family for a bit before going to London. So I'm thinking, like, Tuesday?" Today's Sunday. That's in two days. Fuck. "Is that fine?"

"Yeah." 

"I should only be a month or two," he's quick to say, probably sensing Harry's discomfort. "I'm already looking at finding a flat of my own, I just -- I want to make sure I'm not going to be totally miserable in London. I'm not a big city person, you know that."

"Right." He doesn't want to say anything else, but he also doesn't want to make Louis feel guilty, so he adds, "You can stay however long you want, it's fine."

"I'll pay rent, obviously. Buy my own groceries, and all that."

Harry wishes he was in a position, financially and emotionally, to say no to that, but he's not. "Okay. That'd be good."

"Thanks a lot, Haz," Louis says, sounding sincere. "Seriously. I've been trying to get back to the UK since I got my nursing licence in Ohio. It's taken so long to get it transferred, and now that it has been, I don't want to wait any longer."0

"No, yeah. I get it. It's fine."

"Okay. Thanks again, I really appreciate it. I should let you get back to sleeping, though. Sorry again for calling."

"It's okay."

"Alright. Goodbye, H."

"Bye, Louis."

He hangs up and lays back down, feeling breathless. And if he has another anxiety attack that takes him twenty minutes to talk himself down from, well. Nobody's there to see it, so it doesn't really matter. 

THEN.

"Is it -- I don't wanna get completely drunk."

Louis laughs, shaking his head. "Harry, it's beer. You're not going to get shitfaced unless you drink a lot."

Harry pouts, staring down at the case of beer in between Louis and Harry on the bed. "What if I'm a lightweight? What if I get, like, full-blown drunk off of one can?"

"You won't."

"But -- "

"Harry," Louis says, laughing like Harry's the funniest thing in the world. They're still completely sober. Harry's not sure if Louis and alcohol will be a good mix. "I promise. I won't let you get too wasted. Just stick with two beers and you'll be fine."

That's what the plan was, anyway, but Harry and Louis got way too entertained by trying to see who could drink the whole can the fastest. Louis won the first one, which Harry deemed unfair because Louis' drank before. Harry's only fifteen and has only tasted wine once at Christmas because his grandma let him. But then Louis won the second one, too, and Harry demanded another match, to which Louis warned that, at this rate, they were going to get shitfaced. Harry was insistent that he didn't care, but now, sixty minutes later, they're five beers deep and Harry's ninety-percent positive he's going to vomit. 

"You're fine," Louis promises, laughing, pulling him onto his lap. Harry goes willingly, only groaning slightly when all the liquid in his stomach sloshes about. Harry nuzzles his face into Louis' neck and laughs, too, just for the sake of it. It feels nice. _He_ feels nice. His skin feels cozy and warm, like it's a blanket wrapped around him. "Uh-oh, someone's a clingy drunk," Louis says, and Harry pouts. 

"Heyy," he whines, although he tightens his hold on Louis' shoulders. He flushes slightly when Louis squeezes his thigh.

It's just. He's never felt this good. Normally, he's anxious and paranoid, but now, he feels like he's floating. He doesn't really _feel_ anything, except an inexplicable urge to kiss Louis and maybe vomit. Which -- whatever. Not important. What is important is that, for once in his life, Harry doesn't feel like such a goody-goody. He's behaving like a normal teenager with his best friend while his best friend's mum is out on a date and they're supposed to be watching his siblings. It feels reckless and fun and like he's fucking unstoppable, so he does kiss Louis, and he doesn't even care that much when Louis pushes him off and says no, not when Harry's drunk for the first time. He just lays back against Louis and melts into the feeling of feeling everything and nothing all at once. 

Louis pushed him away this time, but the other few times they got drunk together, he didn't. It never goes much further than making out, and Harry's always the first to initiate it, but it's nice regardless. 

NOW.

"So he's just -- going to stay here? For at least a month?" Nick asks, once Harry's finished. Of course, he left out some details -- as far as Nick knows, Mike is an asshole, and that's all Harry says -- but Nick has the picture. 

Harry nods, still staring up at the ceiling. Days like today where Nick comes over to smoke some weed with him remind Harry that Nick is basically his only real friend. Everyone else makes him go to them or they meet up at dodgy clubs. Nick and maybe one other person are the only two friends Harry has in London, and that's just fucking pathetic. 

"And why didn't you say no, again?"

Harry laughs darkly before taking another hit from the joint that's dangling loosely between his fingertips. "I can't say no to anybody, haven't you learned that by now?"

"You're not wrong."

"Plus, it's like. I owe him."

"For what?"

Harry shakes his head and Nick sighs. He grabs the joint from Harry and stuffs it out against the ashtray in front of them, even though it's not all gone yet. "You always do that," Nick says. 

"Do what?"

"Shut down mid-conversation. It's extremely annoying."

Harry thinks it over for a minute before shrugging. He's too high for it to mean much to him. "You know what's annoying? When people stub out my perfectly good joint. It's blasphemous."

"Oi, shut it," Nick says, reaching over to tweak Harry's nipple. Harry squirms away. "It was _my_ perfectly good joint that I so graciously shared with you. For free, mind you. What're you going to do when you get in with a crowd that makes you pay for your own shit?"

It's a fair point. Nick rarely makes him pay for whatever drugs he's throwing Harry's way, which is something Harry isn't blind to. Nick's a lowkey famous, full-time DJ at some popular radio show and a part-time drug dealer who happens to have a soft spot for sad little boys from Holmes Chapel who are too poor to afford their own drugs. Maybe he and Louis would get on, then. 

"Bring you with?" Harry says finally, grinning. Nick rolls his eyes and shifts on the couch so he's closer to Harry, and in response, Harry rests his head on Nick's shoulder. 

"I have a work meeting to be at in, like, a half hour," Nick says, and Harry's not naive, he can read between the lines, so he reaches down to undo Nick's belt, and Nick grins, leaning back.

-

Harry fucking hates his job. 

He got it thinking it'd be all fun and cool, and that he'd meet hot hipster boys with a good sense of music that'd be down to fuck him in the back closet, but the only people who buy records anymore is old people, apparently. Sometimes, when they're barely fifty-looking, Harry gets hopeful, but then they get to the counter and there's a wedding ring suffocating their fingers, and Harry has _some_ boundaries, so he grumpily hands them their receipt and he _doesn't_ tell them to have a nice day, no matter how petty that is. 

He knows he should have a better outlook on it. He only has to work weekdays minus Tuesdays, his boss, Stacey, is nice, and he gets paid too much money to play on his phone all day and occasionally help one or two customers. But for a record shop, they play pretty shit music, and it's boring. So, so boring. 

So when Louis calls him, three terrible hours into his shift, he answers, even though he should know better than to. They're going to be living together in -- tomorrow, fuck. They have to get used to each other again eventually. 

"Hello," he says. The only person he's seen today is himself, and that's dead boring. The next job he gets is going to be at an amusement park or something, where he’ll never not be busy, even if that means cleaning up children's puke all day. 

"Oh, um. Hi."

Harry frowns. Louis sounds surprised he answered. Should he not have? Did he just make things even weirder? He's not sure. "Hi," he says again, and then curses himself. He's fucking stupid.

Louis just laughs. "Hey. I was thinking about getting there around, um. Like noon, maybe? If that alright."

"Yeah, that should be fine. I don't work tomorrow, so." 

"Okay, good. It's just, like. I don't have a key or anything, so I wanted to make sure it was okay."

Harry stammers for a few seconds, stuttering uselessly, before finally getting out, "I'll get you a key soon. I didn't really think about that, sorry."

"It's okay. It's -- Harry." Shit, he sounds serious. Anxiety pools heavily in Harry's abdomen. "You sound super anxious about this whole thing."

"No, I'm okay," he says, doing his best to sound normal. It doesn't work that well.

"Your mum told me your anxiety's been better since you've moved out, but I don't. . . if me being there with you is going to make it worse, maybe I shouldn't. I don't want to make things worse for you than they have to be."

If Harry wasn't so irritated, he might feel comforted by the fact that Louis is still so protective of him. "Don't listen to my mum," he snaps. "She wouldn't know."

There's a beat of silence and Harry realizes he's already unloading his issues on Louis again. He sits on the chair behind the desk and counts to ten in his head and Louis still hasn't said anything. Harry sighs, and Louis clears his throat. 

"Does that. . . does that mean you and her don't talk anymore, or that your anxiety hasn't gotten any better?" Louis asks carefully. 

Harry melts further into his chair. "Both." He doesn't give Louis a chance to say anything before he continues. "I'm fine, that's not -- I'm fine, seriously. I've been fine since I moved out. It's just. I don't know. You can come around noon, I'll be home to let you in."

"Harry." He sounds sad. "I know we aren't close anymore, but we can still, you know, talk. I hope we can, anyway, considering we're going to be living together soon."

"I'm at work, I've got to go," he mumbles, before hanging up. He drops his head on the desk and sighs, and as fate would have it, he gets his first customer of the day then. And as a 'fuck-you' from the universe, Harry spends the next hour helping a seventy year old man find the 'perfect' album to give to his wife of forty-two years as a birthday present. 

THEN. 

Going into his senior year alone is probably the scariest thing he's ever done. 

Louis' always been there to soften the blow. He's boisterous and captivating and friends with literally everyone, and he was always there with Harry under his wing as a protector. They tried to take the same classes when their required classes were permitted, and they had the same lunch two out of the three years they were in high school together, so Harry was never alone, not really. And if he needed someone to talk to, Louis was only a text away. But now, he has nobody. 

He didn't realize how much of a loner he was until Louis' absence meant sitting in the back of the classroom by himself and eating in the library and skipping certain classes frequently because he doesn't know anyone in them and there's a lot of group work. One of those classes is Sculpting, which is a class he took in his junior year as well, but Louis was there and they did all the work together and it was probably the funnest class Harry's ever taken. Now, he's barely there half the time. 

By the second month of school, he's been absent for that class so many times it's almost surprising his teacher, Ms. Kay, waits so long to talk to him about it. When she does, it’s while he's texting Louis during lunch at the library and she sees him. 

"Harry," she greets brightly. Harry jumps in surprise, and then immediately cringes. She blinks at him, clearly a little concerned. 

"Hi, Ms. Kay," he says, feeling sheepish. She's definitely going to scold him for not coming to class, and he can't exactly say he doesn't deserve it. Still, his stomach drops when she takes a seat across from him at the table he's sitting at. She sets a stack of paper in front of her -- she was probably printing copies off for class -- and when she sees him looking at them, she raises an eyebrow at him. 

"You'd know what this worksheet is for if you bothered to come to class." She sets her chin on her hand and stares at him, trying to work out his motives. It makes him squirm. 

"Um, yeah. Sorry."

Her frown deepens as he darts his eyes away from her. Louis' always teased him for being shit at keeping eye contact. "I don't understand," she says. "You had so much fun in my class last year, and I reckon that's why you decided to take it again. I know your friend -- Louis, was it? -- has graduated, but surely that wasn't the only reason you enjoyed my class?"

Harry shrugs miserably. She sighs. 

"Harry, you know our school's policy. If you're absent from more than ten classes per card marking, I can drop you from the class."

"Please don't," he says quickly. "If you do that, I won't graduate, I -- "

"How do you plan on graduating when you have a thirteen percent in my class?" 

God, Harry's going to slip into a panic attack if she doesn't stop pressing him about this. He hates how pathetic he is, how he can estimate his moods like they're clockwork sometimes. 

"I don't know," he rushes out, face getting warm. "But I just -- maybe I can talk to my counselor and get switched out of the class or something."

She furrows her eyebrows. "Two months into the first term? Do they let kids do that?"

"I don't know," he says again, equally as rushed. "I don't -- I could ask."

"Why don't you just come to class?"

His face feels like it's on fire. He can't say he has crippling anxiety and he'd rather fail out of school than work with someone he doesn't know because those are the types of things that get you referred to the school's guidance counselor. But he doesn't want Ms. Kay thinking he's a rude kid who hates her and her class, either. 

Thankfully, before he has to make the decision, the lunch bell rings and he quickly packs up his things before telling her goodbye and practically running out of the library. 

Still. Ms. Kay had a point; he's going to fail out of his senior year if he doesn't get his shit together, if it's not too late. He should've talked to her about it, tried to see if getting his grade up was even a possibility at this point. He fucked it up, and now he has to go out of his way to fix it. 

He goes to her room after school and explains to her through stuttered half-sentences that he doesn't like the idea of working with others, and she gives him this sad, almost disappointed, look. 

"Harry, if you would've just talked to me, this all could have been avoided." She sighs and shuts a folder that she was writing in and looks at him. "You're in my third period, right?" He nods anxiously. "There's a boy in that class who works independently. He's kind of like you, although he has tons of friends here, they're just . . . " She searches for her next words. "They're not the art type, if you will." She looks happy, now, like Harry's a project that went awry but just needing a swift kick to get working again. "I'll tell you what. If you come to class tomorrow and give him a shot as a partner, I'll work with you to make sure you don't fail this marking period."

"Okay," Harry breathes. He has no other choice. "What's his name?" Maybe, by some miracle, he'll know the bloke and it'll lessen his anxiety about it. 

She smiles at him, nodding. "His name is Oli. I'll introduce you two tomorrow during class."

NOW. 

He wakes up the next morning to someone -- Adam, he quickly remembers, the guy from the club a few nights ago -- shoving him, hard. He blinks, jolting awake, and Adam rolls his eyes at him. 

"I've been trying to wake you for ages." He shakes his head. "Someone's at the door. Has been for about ten minutes."

At first, Harry's beyond confused. He doesn't know why someone would show up at his flat at -- he glances at the clock on his bedside table. It's twelve-thirty in the afternoon. He wracks his brain trying to remember if he had an appointment with a repairman or someone like that, but he knows that's not something he'd do, so -- _oh motherfucking shit._

"Goddammit," he hisses, practically throwing himself out of the bed. He quickly shoves on a pair of boxers before nearly killing himself trying to get to the door. Louis' going to think he's ghosted him, he probably feels so stupid right now, stranded in front of some ungrateful idiot's doorstep in the thick of London. He pretty much rips the door of its hinges with how hard he swings it open, but it's okay when he sees how thankful Louis looks when he sees it's Harry and not some nutcase. 

"I'm so, so sorry," he pants, out of breath and barely awake. "I was dead asleep, and I forgot to set an alarm last night, I -- "

"No worries," Louis says, smiling gently. And that's when the initial _oh fuck_ feeling fades away and Harry process the fact he's seeing Louis for the first time since he went with Louis' family to drop him off at the airport. In the time they were still in-touch, Louis could never afford to come back home and leave school, and by the time he could, Harry was already living in London and they hadn't talked in months. Louis' a bit taller, though not by much, and he just looks -- older, as stupid as that sounds. He's no longer baby-faced and innocent looking: his cheekbones and jawline have sharpened and his hair is swooped to the side in a fringe. He looks good. Great, even. 

And Harry looks like he just rolled out of bed, because he literally did. He probably reeks of cheap liquor and he's in nothing but his boxers, and he has a forty-nine year old man naked in his bedroom. This is just great. 

"Hey, Haz," Louis says, as if they haven't already greeted one another. But this feels different, somehow. Like they're getting on the same level again. Except Louis' a fancy nurse working in London with money falling out of his pockets and Harry is just the person he's stuck slumming it with until he can get a fancy flat of his own. Harry's never been bitter towards that kind of thing, but right now, he kind of is. 

"Do you wanna -- ?" Harry gestures behind him and then to the three suitcases pooling at Louis' feet.

Louis nods stiffly. God, this is awkward. "Uh, yeah. Thanks." He shuffles in ungracefully, trying to move all three suitcases at once and then getting one stuck on the doorstep, and while trying to get it unstuck, he manages to bang the other one loudly into the door, and Harry wants to tell him to just take one at a time or maybe help but he's stuck in one place, just watching. 

When Louis' managed to get them all inside and shuts the door, he looks at Harry expectantly. Right. Harry's the host here. "Um," he starts, not sure what to stay. He doesn't like that Louis' first time seeing him in seven -- _seven_ \-- years is a pair of possibly stained boxers and nothing else. He should've made Louis stand outside for another minute and got dressed. There's probably a lot of things he should've done. "You can just. Um. There's a guest bedroom, but it's kind of small and has some junk in it. I was supposed to clean up in there for you, but." He scratches at his chest nervously. Another thing he should've done. "There's nothing in there that's important, so you can just move it out of your way and I'll take everything out eventually."

Louis nods and says nothing. 

"Uh, I'll -- here, follow me." He starts walking towards the room, and as they maneuver through his small flat he points lamely and says "that's the kitchen" and "there's the bathroom" until they get to the short hallway, which only takes twenty or so steps to reach. Harry's room is on one side, Louis' on the other. The bathroom's in-between the rooms. "That one is yours," he says, pointing to the door on the left. 

"Okay. Thank you." Louis re-positions his hold on his suitcase. He chose to carry one and pull the other, leaving the third one in the living room. They both stare at the door for a moment, not sure what to do next. This shouldn't be so weird. Or maybe it should be weirder. 

Harry's about to ask Louis how his family is doing before the door to the right opens and Adam walks out, and Jesus fucking Christ, at least he's dressed. Maybe Louis will think he's just a weird uncle or something. That's leaving his room wearing fuck-me jeans, which. Maybe that strengthens the weird uncle narrative, he's not sure. Louis glances at Harry, confused, and Harry sighs. 

"Um, this is -- it doesn't matter actually." Harry lowers his voice, "Adam, you're leaving, yeah?" He's shooting daggers at him with his eyes, silently threatening to kill him if he doesn't leave right now. Adam nods, smiling brightly, giving Harry the sense he wanted to get caught leaving, which is terribly annoying and something someone his age shouldn’t be doing. Before he leaves, he tries to kiss Harry on the cheek and Harry pulls back, making a face at him. This is already so awkward Harry could melt into the floor, and Adam's gone and made it worse, and for what? They've fucked twice; it's not like Harry's his, or anything. There's no territory to claim here. 

When Adam goes, Harry's face is bright red and he kind of wants to cry a little. He gets the courage to look at Louis, who's staring back at him with a face that could only be described as a mixture of disgust and disappointment, and all it does is make Harry feel worse. He knows, logically, Louis' just trying to take everything in right now; when he left, Harry was a scrawny, sixteen-year-old virgin. It doesn't make it feel any better. 

"I'm gonna go lay down," Louis says, smiling a bit. Harry nods, feeling stupid. Before Louis shuts the door, Harry catches Louis staring at something, and it takes a minute for Harry to realize what it is he's looking at. Nobody's ever really batted an eye at the collection of scars on his thighs, and to be honest, Harry's so usd to them that he's forgotten they're the kind of thing that makes people worried. 

Harry orders takeout -- pizza, Louis decided on, slightly exasperated by the amount of times Harry told him that it didn't matter to him what they got -- and he tries his best to sound normal when he calls the pizza place to place an order, but he trips over his words and he gets flustered, always terrible at talking on the phone. He didn't think Louis noticed until Louis took the cash from Harry and paid the delivery man so Harry wouldn't have to. A part of Harry wants to be mad -- he doesn't need Louis, he hasn't for almost a decade -- but he's so grateful that he doesn't say anything about it. 

He turns on _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ as they eat, and he tries to think what Louis is thinking right now. There's no way he doesn't think Harry's a right mess. He answered the door late in boxers, an older man exited his room and tried to kiss him, he's already noticed the scars that Harry didn't even think to hide, and he made himself look like an idiot on the phone. Louis' grown, this put-together adult, and Harry's still this emotionally-stunted, awkward mess that's hard to look at. 

Confusingly enough, though, when he reaches for a second piece of pizza, he notices Louis smiling softly at him. 

They don't really talk at all. Silence has always unnerved Harry, so he gets clumsier and more anxious than normal, but Louis doesn't seem too bothered by it. He puts the leftover pizza into the fridge and he's about to excuse himself to go to bed, but then he realizes there's a few things they should probably cover first. 

He hovers awkwardly by the doorway for a few seconds before clearing his throat. Louis looks up from his phone and at him. 

"I just -- I have work in the morning," he tells Louis. "I start at eight and probably won't be home until, like, four. And I'm probably going to go out with some friends tomorrow night, so just like. I'll get you a key soon, but until then just leave the door unlocked if you leave. And if you forget, there's an office in the middle -- " he motions lamely in the direction, but they're inside and it doesn't really direct Louis anywhere -- "and they'll let you in."

"Okay," Louis says, nodding. Harry's about to leave the room, but Louis stops him. "Where do you work?"

He inhales shakily. "At a record shop a few streets over."

Louis grins. It makes Harry feel lighter, somehow. "That's actually pretty neat. Do you -- I mean, have you finished college, yet? I think I remember my mum telling me you got accepted into King's. That's pretty impressive."

Harry's face gets warm again. All these things he's having to think about again and talk about again are strange. He didn't realize how little he talks to people about serious things, things that probably matter, until today. Not knowing what Louis' going to say next is making him nervous. 

"I did, yeah." _And being accepted into King's is nowhere close to as impressive as getting a full-ride for nursing school in America, so shut the fuck up._ "I, uh. I dropped out after my first year though. Well, I made it, like, two months into my second year, too."

Louis' smile drops. He's even frowning a little now. "Why? It's just -- you're so smart, Harry."

Harry cringes slightly. Accepting the fact he was intelligent was hard for him. He spent his entire high school career thinking he was average, if only slightly above, and when his counselor sat him down senior year and told him he had the fourth highest grade point average in his grade and that he did well on all of his standardized testing, that he should be proud of himself, he was shocked. Nobody could deny his intelligence based off of his marks. They couldn't all be blamed on lucky guesses. 

University was more difficult, obviously, but Harry did fine. He had mostly B's in his classes, some A's. He was doing well, that's not why he dropped out. He just. Didn't care anymore. Didn't see the point. He was constantly stressed and wanted to spend his time doing something else with his time. And everything got to be too much, and when he started doing stupid enough shit that freaked him out, he quit. 

"It just wasn't for me," he settles on, smiling tightly. 

Louis furrows his eyebrows. "You were so excited for uni."

"I was excited to move out," Harry corrects quietly. "Uni was my only way out."

"Right," Louis says, glancing back down at his phone. “University isn't meant for some people, that's okay."

Harry nods pointlessly. Louis' not even looking at him. He mumbles a quiet goodnight before making a beeline for his room, where he strips off all his clothes and burrows underneath the blankets. Today couldn't have gone worse. Louis thinks he's a loser. He kind of is one, isn't he, so it shouldn't really matter but it does. Louis' opinion used to be law to him. 

He doesn't get that much sleep that night, too caught up in the past. He mostly thinks about his dad, and he's almost thankful. Thinking about Louis hurts too much. He had high expectations for Louis; Harry could never be disappointed by Mike because he never expected anything from him. 

It sounds pathetic, but. Harry doesn't understand what he did to deserve any of it. He did well in school, he minded his own business, he didn't go out much except to be with Louis. Gemma constantly did stupid, reckless shit, and she got yelled at for it, she did, but Harry once spilled water in the living room by accident and their dad punched him so hard in the stomach that he threw up. He couldn't have been that bad as a kid, he couldn't have. 

He can't shut off his brain, and at two o'clock in the morning, he digs through his dresser to find some sleeping pills -- prescribed, surprisingly enough -- before taking two and shutting his eyes. It only takes him another fifteen minutes to fall asleep. 

THEN. 

They all think it's the funniest thing in the world when Harry can't stop coughing after he takes a hit off Oli's joint. It's not, though, it's not funny at all. Harry's supposed to be proving himself to Oli's friends, and how can he do that when all the air in his lungs have been replaced by smoke? His face is red and his skin is hot and he's pretty sure Oli's going to call him stupid, but by the time he's done coughing and he's sure he's not going to have an asthma attack, Oli pats his back and grins. 

"Josh was even worse his first time," he says, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to point at Josh, a Year Twelve with long, shaggy brown hair. As far as he can tell, Josh is Oli's closest friend. The others -- Jordan, Courtney, Sherri, and Randy -- seem like they're here for the weed. 

Josh makes a face. "Hey. Don't be airing my dirty laundry to the new kid."

Harry's face burns even hotter, and Oli wraps an arm around his shoulders. "Be nice. He's cool, trust me."

"Cool isn't exactly the word I'd use," Courtney says, grinning. Harry's not even offended; he's so far from cool. "I'd say _interesting_."

"Charming," Jordan offers, plucking the joint from his fingers. Harry watches him inhale the smoke before letting it go. He doesn't cough once. 

Sherri leans forward, eyes twinkling. "Cute."

Randy laughs. "Good try, but most definitely gay."

It's overwhelming, hearing a bunch of strangers judging him openly like this. They aren't being mean, exactly, but it feels like they're all in on a joke that he's clueless to. It doesn't really matter. They seem to like him enough. 

Oli turns to him then, eyebrows furrowed. He's closer than Harry's comfortable with and he leans back slightly in an attempt to put some space between them. "Are you?" Oli asks. "Gay, I mean."

Harry swallows thickly. They don't look like the group to care much, but he can't be sure. Still, he doesn't know what to say. He can't lie, can he? These are supposed to be his new friends. He needs to make friends, needs someone to help him keep his head above water, and these people could be it. "Um," he stutters out, "I -- um. Bi. I'm um. I'm bi." _I think,_ he doesn't tack on, because there's no way he could know for sure. The only person he has kissed is Louis. He could think girls are disgusting, he wouldn't know. 

Oli leans forward then, closing the distance Harry created. Harry's not stupid, he knows exactly what comes next, but he doesn't know how to stop it or if he wants to. Would it be so bad if he let Oli kiss him? It'd be a sure way to get on his good side and stay there for good. But part of Harry likes that only Louis has ever kissed him, that only Louis knows what he tastes like, and he's not sure he's ready to lose that. Before he can think of any ways to get out of the situation, Oli leans forward and presses a dry, chaste kiss to Harry's lips, and it's not that bad. Harry lets him deepen the kiss, only vaguely aware that there are people watching him. It's like he doesn't care about it anymore, like all of his anxieties have shrunk to nothing. It's probably the weed, but Harry links that to Oli, and he can't be blamed for how hard he tries to hang on to him after that. 

NOW.

When Harry gets home from work the following day, the first thing he does is smoke a joint in the living room, and he can't force himself to care that Louis is only a few feet away in his room and can come out and catch him at any second. When they were kids, Louis smoked weed all of the time, even after Jay caught him and threatened to cut off his fingers if he ever did again. So Harry's pretty sure Louis can't give him shit for this, that this won't be another thing that'll make Louis think _what the fuck happened to him?_. If he's even thinking that in the first place. 

It immediately relaxes him, like always. He had a shit day at work and he's exhausted and Nick's supposed to be picking him up in a few hours to go to some shitty club. Most of the time, Harry's more than willing to go out clubbing, but he's been in a right crap mood today. He's not an idiot, he knows exactly what's going on in his stupid brain right now. He went to the clinic a few times at university, just for a quick visit because he was so fucking sad all the time and he couldn't figure out why. He was finally out of the house, finally away from Mike, which is all he ever wanted for eighteen years, but he couldn't stop wanting to cry all the time. He filled out a few surveys and got a blood test done, and the doctor told him that _it looks like you're severely depressed, Harry_ , and Harry just laughed because of fucking course he was, of course life just had to throw that at him, too. 

Weed helps. Sex helps. Drinking helps. So here he is. 

Still, when he hears a door open followed by footsteps, he freezes in panic and embarrassment. He contemplates stubbing it out against the ashtray and hiding the evidence, but before he can talk himself into wasting a perfectly good joint, a tired-looking Louis walks into the living room, a soft blanket draped around his shoulders. He blinks at Harry a few times and yawns before walking to the kitchen. Harry watches him patter around the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea, and when he's done, he comes and sits on the couch Harry's on. He takes a sip of his steaming tea, stares at the rerun of _Friends_ playing on the TV, and finally glances at Harry expectantly. 

"You hated it when I smoked," Louis says, sounding amused. "Said it smelt like a dead skunk. Which it kind of does, by the way."

Harry's cheeks burn. "Sorry. Do you. . . like, do you want to hit it?" he offers, handing it out to Louis. Unexpectedly, Louis shakes his head no.

"Can't risk my license," Louis says, shrugging. "And, you know. Probably could do without."

Harry scoffs a little. "Thought your people are the ones who say marijuana doesn't hurt anyone."

Louis makes an annoyed face and rolls his eyes. Harry hit a nerve, he can tell, but Louis doesn't snap. Instead, he says, "Dunno, mate. Putting anything into your lungs doesn't seem smart, does it?"

There's a flick of anger across his heartstrings, and before Harry can stop himself, he grumbles, "Alright, Dr. Smartypants," and leans over to stub the joint out even though he really doesn't want to. It proves a point. What point, he's not sure, but Louis gets the message. 

"I'm not a doctor," Louis says, voice clipped. "And you didn't need to do that."

Harry pulls himself up off the couch, not wanting to indulge this any longer. He's tired and he's in a bad mood and he's so fucking mad at Louis, and they have to live together now so Harry can't make it miserable for the two of them. "I'm gonna go lay down."

"I wasn't trying to be a dick," Louis says, sitting up. He looks a mix of annoyed and confused. 

Harry takes a deep breath and rubs his sweaty palms against his jeans harshly. He's getting fuzzy around the edges, and having an anxiety attack in front of Louis sounds like the worst thing ever right now. "I know. And, like. You weren't. Being a dick. I'm just -- " he motions lamely to himself. _I'm just like this. I'm just too me_. "Sorry." 

Just before Harry closes his door, he hears a soft sigh come from the living room. 

-

The only reason he brings home a girl that night instead of a guy is because of Louis. 

If this is how it's going to be for the rest of these next two months or so -- Harry panicking about every little thing Louis could be thinking -- it's going to suck, and he's defenseless against it. It reminds him of how it was like with his dad; constantly observing, stressing, and trying to guess his next mood. But Louis' not his dad, far from it, so why is he so worried about what Louis could say? Louis' never been mean to him before, not really, and especially not about liking guys as much as he does girls. Louis' not even straight himself -- at least, he wasn't when they were kids -- so the only real reason he's getting red lipstick smeared on his neck as he unlocks the door is because he's an idiot.

Lindsey isn't even his type of girl, either. She's American, first of all, which isn't exactly a bad thing, but she's like -- she's from Los Angeles, okay, and it shows. She does this thing where she acts like she isn't smart, and Harry has a hard time believing that anyone can be _that_ dumb. It irritates him. You don't have to be dumb to get into his pants; literally anyone as a ninety percent chance of doing that, and being smart doesn't lower your chances. And she's wearing heels when she literally can't walk in them -- she stumbled three or four times from the bar entrance to the Uber, and she's not even drunk -- and she keeps laughing about nothing, God. Harry's annoyed by her, and now he has to spend the night fucking her, which is so much _work_. He'd rather just smoke a joint while he's getting fucked by some bloke, but here he is, acting like the idiot he is. 

Louis' laying on the couch watching TV when Harry finally unlocks the door. He looks a little surprised, and then amused when Harry has to brush Lindsey's wandering hands away twice. 

"You didn't tell me you had a roommate," Lindsey says, laughing. Her hand slips back under Harry's shirt and he doesn't have the dignity to shoo it away again. "Is he British too?"

Harry rolls his eyes and walks forward, not looking at Louis. "My room's this way," he says. He really wants to tell her to just go home. He doesn't want to fuck her -- maybe anyone -- right now, because there's that feeling of discomfort wedging itself between his layers of his skin that's growing and growing.

He ignores it, and he's glad he did because she's actually kind of fun in bed. She thinks he's really fit, and Harry's not the most confident person in the world, so it makes him feel good. Wanted. Loved. He just wants to be loved. He craves affection more than the average person does, even if it's coming from an overly aggressive bloke at the club or a ditsy girl who he doesn't care for all that much. It's not rocket science as to why; he didn't get shown much love as a kid, except from maybe Louis and Louis’ mum, so he has to search for it in everyone else. 

Sex also helps make him less sad, so Lindsey helps him kill two birds with one stone. 

After they're done, Lindsey turns to him, cheeks flushed and hair wild. "Do you want me to go?" she asks. Harry doesn't move his gaze from the ceiling. 

"No," he says softly. He rolls his eyes at himself. "I mean, you don't have to. If you want to, you can, but -- "

"So I can shower?" She sits up, hugging his sheet to her like they weren't just fucking two minutes ago. 

Harry shrugs. He feels like crying. Louis being here is fucking with his head. Normally, sex is enough to jolt the sadness out of his body for a little while, but it's still here. He wonders how long it's going to stick around for. Sometimes, he'll feel this way for a day and it'll be gone. Other times, it clings to him for months and months and months, like it had been before he almost killed himself all those years ago. 

Suicide isn’t something he thinks about much, and when he does, it’s always idle thinking. He’d never actually do it. Why, he’s not sure. He just knows he won’t. And maybe that’s scary, not knowing why he wouldn’t, because that means the reasoning can slip away without him noticing. He’d never do it, though, so it doesn’t matter. 

"I don't mind. Just make sure my roommate isn't in there before you go in."

He lays there and cries until he hears the water from her shower, and then he stops himself. It scares him how easy he can do that sometimes, like the tears can be deactivated by a simple switch. To Harry, they usually can be. 

Lindsey comes back into his room, squeezes back into her clothes, and grabs her phone and purse off his nightstand. He really wishes she would just stay. 

"I should go," she tells him, after she's written something down on a piece of paper. Probably her number. "Thanks for a good night."

He doesn't look at her as he nods. She shifts on her feet for a few seconds before scoffing quietly and leaving. Maybe he offended her by not saying anything, but he doesn't really care. She's going to go back to Los Angeles in a month and their paths will never cross again; there's no point in playing nice. 

When he hears the door shut, he pulls himself to his feet. He slips on a t-shirt and his boxers, and he knows he should probably put on a pair of sweats or something so Louis doesn't see his scars again, but what's the point of that? Louis already saw them. He can’t keep changing how he lives his life to possibly benefit someone else. He lived like that for far too long. 

Louis' still on the couch when Harry comes into the living room. He goes to the kitchen area without saying anything and grabs himself a beer out of the fridge. For once, he didn't get high at the bar, and maybe that's why he feels so off. He drank a decent amount, but clearly not enough, so in the hopes he can fall asleep tonight without his sleeping pills that are most definitely not supposed to be mixed with alcohol, he'll drink a bit more. He stays in the kitchen as he finishes the first one off. When he moves on to the second, Louis comes in the kitchen. 

He smiles at Harry. Harry keeps his head ducked down. 

"You didn't let her stay the night," Louis observes. He moves to place a plate in the sink. 

"She didn't want to." He runs the risk of looking up, and Louis' looking at him fondly and sadly all at once. 

"I miss you, H," Louis whispers, and Harry recoils. 

"Don't."

Louis furrows his eyebrows. "Why not?"

Harry scoffs and shakes his head, looking away from Louis and clenching his jaw. Louis doesn't get to miss him when he's the reason why they stopped being friends in the first place. That's like intentionally shooting someone and then feeling bad about the blood. "Just don't."

Louis sighs and leans against the counter across from Harry. "So you _are_ mad at me. Gemma said -- "

"God, you still talk to my sister too?" Harry asks, exasperated. He laughs, a little hysteric. 

"Yes." Louis frowns. "Why, is that bad?"

" _I_ haven't even talked to Gemma in six years, Louis, so excuse me if I think it's a little fucking odd you and my family are still so close." He crosses his arms, the chill of the beer pressed against his arm. "How come you could talk to my sister and my mum but you couldn't talk to me?"

Louis looks hurt. "I _tried_."

"Bullshit."

"I did," Louis disagrees. He inhales deeply, and Harry realizes belatedly his chest feels a little tight. "You started pulling away from me, Harry, and I don't blame you. I know how hard it was for you. But the only reason why I ever stopped calling is because you stopped picking up."

It wasn't that simple. It wasn’t like that. Harry was getting battered left and right at home and he got caught up in a group of friends that he didn't fit in with and his sister abandoned him and took the fucking cat with her. He stopped picking up because he stopped doing everything else too, like eating properly and sleeping at night and doing his homework at home. Louis wouldn't get it, though, because he wasn't there. 

"I'm not doing this right now," Harry says, straightening his spine. He feels lightheaded. He wants Nick, and not because Nick is this amazing person but because Nick will hold him and not ask any questions. He wants to go back to his room so he can grab his phone and text Nick, but he feels frozen. He just wants Louis to stop staring at him. 

"I want to fix things between us, Harry."

Harry closes his eyes. He doesn't open them again until Louis finally sighs and walks away. He doesn't move until he hears Louis settle back down on the couch. When he feels like he can move again, he speed walks to his room and sends his SOS out to Nick. 

_Can't sorry. im still out with everyone. maybe you shouldn't have ditched us for some girl. did she at least go down on you?_

_Please nick,_ he sends, biting down on his lip. 

_haz come on. you can handle one night by yourself_

Harry tosses his phone to the bottom of the bed and tries not to cry. He's desperate for a little touch, for a little warmth. He feels achingly alone right now, and it's because he is. He rarely talks to any of his family and he has shitty friends and coworkers in their fifties. He alienated himself carefully and purposefully, he knows he did. It felt right at the time, and he knows if anyone good for him tried to help him, he'd just push them away, but that doesn't mean he can't feel lonely. 

There's someone else he could call. Someone who would come over immediately. But he promised himself he'd stop going back to him. It never leads to anything good.

THEN. 

"Does it hurt?"

Harry blinks back the tears that keep threatening to pour out and glances at Oli, who's staring at him with wide eyes and a grin. Harry knows he's not a good person; no good person could be looking at a beaten human and smile at them like it's a game. It's not a game. Harry getting struck with a belt over and over and over is no game. He's hurting all over, bad enough that he left instead of just taking it like he's been doing lately. That's no game. 

Harry nods shakily. "Yeah."

"Can I see it again?" Oli reaches over to pull up Harry's shirt to see the slashes all over his back, but Harry moves away. The only reason why he let Oli see the first time is because he wasn't sure how deep the buckle of the belt had gone and he was worried. 

"Oli, please stop."

"You sound like you're gonna cry," Oli says. He scoots over on the bed, getting closer to Harry, and he grabs his jaw. Harry allows his head to be turned, and Oli's excitement hasn't dimmed any. Harry doesn't know what it means. "How're you going to cover your lip for school tomorrow?" Oli asks, referencing Harry's split lip. 

Harry shrugs, and it sends a wave of nauseating pain over him. "I don't know. I don't know if I can even go tomorrow, I -- " He cuts himself off with a cry, and Oli shushes him. He wraps his arms around Harry and pulls him into his chest,strokes his fingers through Harry's hair as he cries. "It hurts too bad," he finally finishes. "I don't -- I need to give it some time to heal. It hurts to move, it hurts to -- "

"Hey, hey, c'mere." Oli cups his jaw again and brings Harry's face close to his. And then Oli's kissing him, and it hurts, it hurts so bad. Oli's lips are brushing over the cut on Harry's lip and it sends a spark of pain through him each time, but it also makes him feel loved. Oli loves him. They've only been dating for a few months, but Harry _knows_ Oli loves him. If Oli doesn't, who does? Nobody. 

Oli bites down on his split lip, and Harry yelps, pulling away. Oli laughs breathlessly and kisses Harry again, this time more gentle. He kisses him and doesn't stop until Harry goes home the next day around five in the afternoon in a blood soaked shirt. 

He doesn't need Louis after all, he tells himself. He has Oli now. 

NOW. 

Louis starts work, Harry gets him a key, and their small talk improves slightly. Harry worked up the courage to ask him how work was on day four, and he even tried to give adequate responses to Louis' stories. He's trying. He doesn't know why, maybe he can't stand the uncomfortable silence, but he's trying. 

"I like it there," Louis says, looking relieved. "It's been only a few days, but I feel like I fit."

Harry nods. "That's, um. That's really good. I'm glad."

They sit on the couch in a comfortable silence, and Harry's mind wanders off somewhere else. After a few minutes, Louis sighs. 

"Can I ask you a personal question?" 

Harry freezes. There could be so many different things Louis can ask; there's no way to be prepared. He tries to relax, tries to convince himself just to trust Louis, but that's difficult to do when he doesn't know this version of Louis. 

He takes a deep breath and nods. 

"Why don't you talk to Gemma anymore?"

That's not nearly as bad as he was expecting, so he relaxes slightly. He runs his hands over his thighs subconsciously as he shrugs. "A lot of reasons, I suppose."

"Like?" Louis presses, and then sighs quietly. "I just don't get it, really. She's your sister, and I thought, like, you two going through the same, um, traumatic experience would make you even closer."

He pulls one of his knees to his chest and shrugs again. Gemma and he weren't incredibly close as kids, but they got on well. Loved each other, and all that. But it's not like their bond was anything spectacular. If it was, Harry doesn't remember it being. 

"I was pissed at her for moving out," Harry says finally. It sounds so selfish, but it's true. "I felt betrayed, I guess. So did our mum. And then, after she left, things just got so much worse at home, and I blamed her for that, I guess."

He's not done, but Louis interrupts him. " _Worse?_ How -- how much worse could things have gotten for you?"

Harry looks down at the floor and just shakes his head. He's not going to tell Louis all about the graphic shit Mike did to him, because it's not important anymore. It shouldn't matter anymore. And he doesn't want to talk about it, not when simply thinking about it makes phantom pains caused by a belt run across his back.

"And she took Theo, so." 

He snorts at himself. Being upset that she took the cat sounds ridiculous compared to everything else. 

Louis nods slowly. "Well, she misses you."

Harry closes his eyes. Louis shouldn't even know that. He shouldn't feel like he has a place to tell Harry that, because he doesn't. "I don't want to have any connection to my childhood. For reasons you're familiar with."

"That doesn't sound very healthy."

Harry shoots him a nasty glare, and Louis immediately backs down. He raises his hands in surrender. "Sorry. I'm overstepping, I know. I'm sorry. I'm just worried about you."

"Lou, come on, mate."

"You don't seem okay, Harry. I don't mean to be a jackass, and I would leave it be if I knew you had someone in your life looking out for you, but I'm not sure that you do."

Tears burn Harry's eyes. How embarrassing. Louis' been here for only a few days and he's already picked up on the fact that Harry has nobody. "Nick looks after me enough. I'm fine."

"Nick is your drug dealer." Harry shoots him another offended look, and Louis doesn't back down this time. "What, am I wrong?"

"You're being a prick." Harry stands and sighs loudly. He grabs his dirty plate off the coffee table and turns to Louis slightly. "You know, I was actually trying to talk to you. And, like. You just fucked it all up."

"I didn't mean to."

"Yeah, well."

Harry goes to the kitchen and puts his plate in the sink before he retreats to his room. He lays down in bed, tries to fall asleep and eventually gives up, and stares up at his ceiling. He wants to call Nick, but doesn't out of spite. It feels too much like proving Louis right, for some reason. And he wishes for his sake he wasn't so petty, because he spends the next twenty minutes debating if calling Oli is a bad idea or not. 

It is a bad idea. It's such a bad idea. Oli's not good for him, is not a good person in general. He can be scary sometimes, and Harry had promised himself the last time he cut Oli off that it would be forever. When he's thinking, he can't even think of many good reasons to call Oli, and yet, an hour later, Oli is standing on his doorstep, grinning. 

"Harry fucking Styles," he says. "Long time, no see. I've missed you, you know."

Harry lets him inside, and as he closes the door he wants so badly to shove Oli right back out. He's so stupid sometimes. 

THEN.

"You could run away."

"No, I can't. That'd get my mum killed."

Oli sighs. "You could call the police."

"That'd get us _both_ killed."

"Can we please go back to kissing?"

Harry nods and allows himself to be pulled back down onto Oli's bed. It didn’t take long to realize that Oli gets bored of him talking too much. Usually Harry doesn't mind, but right now Harry's so twisted up inside and he wants to talk about it with someone. His brain has felt so heavy these last few weeks, and he wants it to stop. He wants to go back to being able to shove everything down. 

He doesn't mean to start crying, but it happens, and Oli sighs, and pulls back. 

"Are you really that upset?"

Harry wipes at his eyes with his arm. "Yeah. I'm -- we can just kiss, I don't care, I won't cry. I'm fine."

Oli stares down at him for a few seconds before shaking his head. "Hold on," he mumbles, and he gets out of bed. Harry watches him go to the bathroom and come back out with something in his hand. 

It's a razor blade, Harry realizes quickly. He eyes Oli carefully. He knows Oli does that, hurts himself. On his chest. Sometimes there's marks on his forearms, but usually it's just his chest. And Harry didn’t comment on them, and he knows that makes him awful, it’s just. . . he doesn’t know what to say. If that were him doing that, and he’s thought about it before, he wouldn’t want someone pointing it out. 

"Give me your arm," Oli says, and Harry finds himself following his instructions mindlessly, almost like he's in a trance. Oli sits back down next to Harry and pushes up his sleeve, exposing his pale skin. "This is gonna hurt, okay, so don't freak out."

Harry's brain whirls. "You're gonna -- you want to do that to me?"

"It helps," Oli says simply.

"Helps with what?"

Oli shrugs. "I don't know, everything. I promise it works. Just trust me."

Harry nods slowly, because why not? If it helps, great, if it doesn't -- Harry's skin is already littered with scars, and this one will fade and blend in with the rest of them. It doesn't matter. It's not a big deal. And he trusts Oli. More than anyone, lately.

"You don't want to do it too deep," Oli tells him, and Harry expects him to keep talking, or maybe give him a warning beforehand, but all of the sudden Oli is pressing the blade against Harry's wrist and digging its teeth into him. 

Harry gasps, and then whimpers, and then cries. He goes to push away Oli's hand, but before he can, Oli's pulling away and looking down at Harry's wrist like he's admiring his art. There's blood everywhere, and it burns terribly. Harry lets out a quiet sob as he stares down at his bleeding wrist. 

"Don't get it all over my bed, Christ," Oli murmurs, moving Harry's wrist so the blood is dripping over Harry's pants. He doesn't care, he lets it happen, because it hurts so badly that it's all he can focus on. 

"Hey, hey. Calm down. It's not that bad."

"It _hurts_."

"You'll get used to it, I promise." 

He leans down and starts kissing Harry again, and Harry gasps out a cry into Oli's mouth. This is insane. Oli is insane. His wrist is throbbing terribly, and it hurts so fucking bad, and all he can do is kiss Oli back because it makes the pain seem less intense. 

After about three minutes, Oli gets back up and fetches Harry a warm washcloth to keep around his cut. He holds it for him, which makes Harry feel so fucking cared for. Nobody since Louis has taken care of his wounds. 

He recognizes how screwed up this all is, and after Oli pressures him into making another cut right above the first one himself, he wonders if this is how it felt for his mum when she started seeing Mike. Understanding how fucked he is, but being so desperately alone that you accept it because it's all you have. 

Then, it seemed harmless. He didn’t realize how addictive that can be. And he pays the price for that, for being too submissive, for the rest of his life. 

NOW. 

It takes exactly twelve minutes for them to start fucking. 

Harry's not even in the mood, but Oli is horny as all shit, so he lies down and kind of just takes it. It’s not like -- he told Oli yes. Well, he said sure, but it’s the same thing. And Oli's being loud, and there's no doubt Louis can hear him, which makes Harry feel disgusting. He can't remember why he invited Oli over here. He can't remember why he thought this was a good idea. 

Oli slaps him across the face a few seconds after he starts really giving it to Harry, and Harry gasps as his cheek burns red hot. He groans quietly before glancing up to meet Oli's eyes. 

"You know I'm not into that," he says, the pain in his cheek not lessening any. 

Oli laughs. "But it looks so good on you, baby." He turns Harry's cheek to get a good look at it, and he seems satisfied with the result.

There must be a mark. Harry hopes it goes away quickly.

When they finish, -- well, when Oli finishes, Harry's only half-hard and neither of them really care to do much about it -- Harry sits up and rubs at his eyes. He's exhausted all the time. He grabs his phone off the nightstand and opens the camera, and thankfully, there's only a small red mark from where Oli slapped him. It'll probably be gone by the time he wakes up tomorrow morning. By the time Louis sees him next. 

Oli rolls closer to him when Harry doesn't get off his phone right away, and sets his hand on Harry's thigh. He leaves it there for a few seconds, not moving, and then slowly, he starts running his fingers over Harry's scars. Some are raised, some aren't. Some are barely there, some are more stubborn. 

Harry sighs quietly and looks down at the hand on his leg. He watches, almost mesmerized. The whole concept of cutting himself is something that he can't wrap his head around; he knows that it hurt more than helped, yet every time he catches himself going down that path again, he seems to forget that. 

"You stopped again," Oli points out, voice low. 

Harry nods. It's a cycle, really. Harry lets Oli in, Harry starts cutting again, he spirals, he cuts Oli off, he gets clean, and then a few months pass and he gets really, really lonely, and calls Oli. It's not his fucking fault Oli is so goddamn reliable. 

"Why?"

"I hate the way it looks," Harry admits quietly. He puts his hand down next to Oli's, their hands overlapping slightly, to trace over a scar in his inner thigh that he knows is particularly gnarly. 

Oli leans forward to plant a kiss on his back and hums quietly. He rubs his hand over Harry's thigh, more insistent. "It's already so scarred, like. What's the point in stopping now, you know? It's never going to heal."

"Oli. . ."

"I know, I know," Oli says, sitting up next to Harry. He yawns and pulls his hand off Harry's thigh completely. "It's the principle of it, or whatever. Feeling like you're in control. You've said that before." He scratches at his beard as he looks around Harry's bedroom. At first, Harry had been so dedicated to making his bedroom look as he always wanted it to at home, and he got halfway into succeeding with that until he gave up. He hasn't changed anything since. "Who's the bloke in your living room, then?"

Harry closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall above his bed frame. He's so sick of everything being about Louis. "That's Louis."

" _The_ Louis?"

Harry nods once. Oli laughs. 

"Oh, shit, mate. No wonder why you're so fuckin' mopey."

"I'm not mopey, I’m -- "

"Oh, please. You're proper sulking."

Harry stays silent. He doesn't want to talk about it. Oli doesn't get the way Harry's brain works, that sometimes it feels like his brain is sucked dry and he's walking around all zombie-like, just like Harry doesn't understand how Oli's works. And he’s more than grateful that he can’t understand how Oli operates. 

"Alright, well. It was nice seeing you, Harry, but -- "

"Don't leave," Harry whispers, opening his eyes. "Please don't leave me."

"Oh, love," Oli whispers back. He crowds into Harry's space and presses kisses all over Harry's skin; his neck, his cheeks, his forehead, his shoulders. He pets at Harry's thighs and says, "I have to. I had plans. I'm quite late for them now, 'cause I couldn't resist your offer. But I have to go. My dad's in town for a few weeks, and I was going to take him out to -- "

"Just go, then." He doesn't mean to be so upset, but he can't help it. He invited Oli over here because he wanted someone to hold him and be with him, not because he wanted a quick fuck. He has a whole contacts list of people he could've called if he wanted that. 

Oli frowns. "Don't be like that, H."

Harry clenches his jaw and looks off to the side. 

"Okay, whatever." Oli presses another kiss to the side of Harry's jaw before standing and getting dressed. Harry watches him, tears gathering in his eyes steadily. Not even Oli will stay for him anymore. 

When Oli's finished dressing, he turns back to Harry and offers him a smile. "You want a hug?"

Harry's lip wobbles. He doesn't mean for it to. It's just -- yes, he wants a hug. He clambers shakily to his feet before wrapping his arms around Oli's neck. He smells like weed and sex, but Harry doesn't care. He probably smells the same. 

Oli's arms are strong and sure around his back, and Harry lets himself melt into that feeling. Only for a little while, because Oli pulls away and leaves far too soon, but it's enough to allow Harry to get a decent night's sleep. 

-

He's still so achingly lonely the next day that when Louis comes home from work, so he tries again. 

"I was gonna turn a movie on," Harry lies, motioning to the TV. Louis' literally only just walked in the door, all dressed in his baby blue scrubs and white, block tennis shoes, and yet he doesn't immediately reject Harry. "If you. If you wanted to watch it with me, like."

Louis nods slowly, although he clearly doesn't trust it. "Let me just go get changed and then we can watch it, okay?"

"Okay," Harry mumbles, nodding. Louis' still staring at him. "I, um. I figured you'd be hungry, so I went out and got us some salads, I didn't -- if you don't want that, I can make something else."

"You didn't have to do that, H."

Harry shrugs clumsily as he looks down at his lap. He feels so stupid. "Sorry."

"No, like. Thank you, I mean, it's just -- I know how much you hate ordering shit at restaurants and stuff like that. We could've ordered in, or I could've come with you."

He wants to snap at Louis for treating him like he's so delicate, just like he was doing with the pizza the first night he was here, but again, he's so fucking appreciative of him caring about stuff like that that he's anything but angry. 

Louis gets changed into pajamas, and then they make their salads in a quiet peace next to one another. It's so normal and relaxed, so Harry doesn't really know what possesses him to look over at Louis when they sit down on the couch and asks, "How long does it take for scars to fade?"

It's just -- he'd been wondering all day. And Google said a variety of different things, from a few months to a few years, to never and to it depends. Louis' a nurse. He'd know, wouldn't he? Harry wants a straight answer. He wants to know how badly he fucked up his body. 

Harry immediately looks down when Louis processes his words and gets this look on his face. He's not stupid; he knows exactly to what Harry's referring to. "Um," Louis starts, after not saying anything for a full minute. "I think it depends? On the severity of the wound, like. And how the healing process of it was. But. . . if you're -- I think if you have any scars from your dad, the ones that haven't faded yet probably won't? Or at least, not as well as the other ones have. And if. . . other things, like. I think it can take up to a year for a scar to heal into those white lines, but it's not promised they'll fade after that."

There are a few dozen white lines on Harry's thighs. One on his wrist, too; the cut Oli made never faded. But there are some pinker lines too, and some scars that are still raised and bumpy. It's been maybe six months since he cut last, and the last one he made stands out among the rest, still somewhat angry-looking. 

But the majority of the collection of scars on his thighs are from his senior year in high school and his time in university. Around those times, he'd been cutting so frequently that he's surprised he didn't run out of room on his thighs sooner. He had been cutting three, sometimes four times a day. And those scars aren't even all the way healed yet, so basically what Louis is telling him is that they'll never be gone. He'll always be branded by his weakest moments. 

So maybe Oli's right. Maybe there's no point in stopping anymore. 

"Harry," Louis starts, and his voice is thick with something that sounds dangerously close to tears. 

Harry shakes his head. "Don't."

"I have to," Louis whispers, and then, "Just, like. Scars are better than. . . than the alternative. Scars are easier to cover up."

Harry shakes his head again and pulls the blanket down from the top of the couch to cover him. He can't even remember the last time he washed it, but it doesn't really matter. "I was planning on watching _Zombieland,_ but if you want to watch something else. . . "

"Harry."

"I'm just saying. I've already watched it, so it doesn't matter to me."

Louis sighs, giving up. He just nods, and says, "We can watch that."

THEN. 

There'd been a time post-Louis where Harry had to go to the hospital to get help, and he knew it too. He knew there was no other alternative, that if he ignored how his head wouldn't stop pulsing, how dizzy he was constantly, and how he'd been throwing up, he could end up literally dying. You don't fuck around with concussions, even Harry knew that. 

He ends up going to Jay for help again, even though he swore to himself he wouldn't after the last time. He knocks and she answers, and when she sees him, she instantly looks distraught. 

"Sweetheart," she says. "Are you alright? Where are you hurt?" 

And like last time, all he wants to do is burst into tears. This time, though, he chokes it down. "I think I have a concussion, and I know I should probably go to the hospital but I don't," he hiccups, swallows it down, and forces himself to keep talking. "I don't want to go by myself, and I didn't know who else to ask."

"What about your mum? I don't -- I think you have to be accompanied by a guardian."

Harry shakes his head. "I'm over eighteen, so I don't need to be, do I?"

"Oh, right." She looks crestfallen, like she's upset with herself that she forgot Harry's age. It'd been the first birthday of Harry's that he wasn't over at her house, celebrating it with Louis. How could she remember? That's not her responsibility anymore. 

"I -- how hard do you hit it, do you think?" she asks, ushering him in. He steps in the house and crosses his arms over his chest; the possibility of one of Louis' sisters hiding around a corner, listening to their conversation, is high. 

"Don't know. Like," he glances off to the side, focuses on a lamp too hard, "he just -- my head, like -- " he stops himself and sighs. It's still so hard to describe, sometimes. It's like he's trying to be secretive about it still, even though that defeats the whole purpose. It's annoying. "I got slammed into a wall, which -- I didn't think it was anything out of the ordinary, but I've had a headache for the last, like, twenty hours, since it happened. And it hasn't let up any. And I’ve thrown up randomly twice now."

"Okay," Jay says quietly. It's obvious she's uncomfortable, and that she's trying not to show it. Harry closes his eyes briefly before looking down. 

"I'm sorry. Seriously. I would've gone to someone else if I had someone else to go."

She touches his arm gently, causing him to glance up. She's frowning. "I am more than willing to help you. In any way you want or need my help, I'll always do my best. You know that."

Tears burn his eyes, and he's beginning to think that's just his default state around Jay. Maybe it's because she's so motherly and affectionate, something that Harry severely lacks in his life and so desperately desires. "I'm not your problem anymore," he says, voice crackling. He sniffs.

"You're not a problem, Jesus, Harry." She squeezes his arm, and she looks awfully serious, eyebrows furrowed and eyes pointed. "I love you like my own. You've got to know that."

The tears are demanding to be shed, so he presses the heel of his palms to his eyes, trying to get them to go away. Jay's arm says around his bicep, holding him tightly. "But I don't even talk to Louis anymore. I don't -- you don't have to care about me anymore."

"Harry." She sounds dejected and regretful. "Sweetheart. Your friendship with Louis has never and will never affect the way I care about you. I hate that you don't feel that. I'm sorry if you've ever felt rejected, for some reason, since Louis hasn't been here."

He's crying now, but he doesn't remove his hands from his face. He doesn't even know why. Jay's seen him cry so many times, so it's not that. It takes him a second to realize that this is the most vulnerable he's let himself be in front of someone in a long, long time. 

It makes him cry harder. 

"Oh, love, it's alright." She pulls his hands away, and he fights her grip for a second before allowing her to. She hugs him tightly, and he kind of just slumps into her, not having the energy to hug her back. "You're eighteen, alright, remember that. You only have a few more months and then you get to leave, and you never, ever have to go back. You're so close, Harry."

Harry cries harder. "I can't just leave my mum, I can't -- "

"You can and you will," she says fiercely. "Your mother has made her choice to stay with him. That's on her. But you've never gotten a choice, and it's time that you finally have a say in what happens to you. It's time that you really start living for yourself. Not doing what will please your dad, or worrying about what Louis is doing. When you graduate this year, this will be your time, not anyone else's. You don't worry about your mum, okay?"

He nods shakily, hiccuping on a sob. Maybe she's right. Maybe the world is his after high school. He'll go off to university, and he'll have the time of his fucking life. He'll graduate, and he'll get himself a job, stable job, and he'll be set for life. 

It sounds so real. So close. He just has to get there first. 

NOW. 

He gets let go from his job two weeks early, and he knows he is completely screwed in the head right now when his first reaction is to go to Oli's and get so blindingly high that he can't feel anything. Not happiness, not sadness, nothing. It's like he doesn't even exist. Like he's not a person. 

Stacey claimed that it was strictly because since they were closing down soon, they needed less and less people. And maybe that's true, Harry doesn't know anything for certain. But he does know that there's other people there who work a lot harder than him, and they probably still have a job because of it. 

He lies on Oli's couch for about an hour, just staring up at the ceiling and doing nothing. Not thinking, not feeling, not anything. Apparently, benzodiazepines and Harry mix well. Harry'll have to keep that in mind, although he knows Nick won't give him any. They're addicting as fuck, according to him, and Nick's not a screwy dealer.

Oli, though. Oli doesn't care about anything, and that's what Harry so viscously envies about him. 

"Alright, mate," Oli is saying after about two hours. He tugs on Harry's hair a little and then pats his cheek. "You've got to go. I have shit to do today, you know. It's only two in the afternoon, still."

Harry stares up at him. About twenty minutes ago, Oli arranged them so Harry's head was in his lap and he was stroking Harry's hair. It felt so nice. "I'm way too far gone to drive."

Oli raises his eyebrows. "Call Nick. He's always on your beck and call, isn't he?"

Harry nods, even though that's not really true, and pulls out his phone. His fingers feel funny. Numb, but not really. They kind of just feel really fat, for some reason. He texts Nick and then sets his phone on his chest. 

Never good at keeping his thoughts in his head when he's out of it, Harry finds himself telling Oli about things that he knows he doesn’t care about. "Louis' a nurse at some posh hospital in London and I'm a dropout who just got fired from their job."

Oli laughs quite hard at that. "Harry, love. You're adorable when you're high. A lot less pouty, too."

Harry ignores him. He just needs to get this stuff out, sometimes. To anyone that will listen. "He knows it too. That's what kills. He realizes how much of a waste my life's become, and he feels guilty, or something, I don't -- God, I thought you said those were gonna keep my high for a long time." He tries to sit up and fails, so maybe he's a lot more high than he feels suddenly. But five minutes ago he was barely stringing a sentence together, and now his brain feels much more alert -- the exact opposite of what he wants. 

"I didn't give you that much. And you're still quite slammed, so. I reckon it did what it was supposed to."

When Nick gets there, he's not happy. Livid is the right word to use, but that's too much to process for Harry right now. He's not happy about having to help Harry get to the car, and he's not happy about having to drive him home, and above all, he's really, really not happy that he's speaking to Oli again. 

"You get scary when you hang around him," Nick snaps at him. He's been ranting at him for the last five minutes, and Harry's only managing to grasp bits and pieces. "I thought you were going to fucking off yourself the last time he fucked with your head. He had you in such a spiral, and when _I_ got you out of it, you agreed that he's not good for you, and that's why you cut him off again. Do you remember any of that? You told him it was for good. It's only been six months, Harry."

Harry presses his forehead against the window and doesn't say anything. 

"I don't like him," Nick continues. " _You_ don't even like him. You think he's a fucking prick, so _why_ , _why_ the fuck are you talking to him again?" Again, no response. "Harry, I'm not kidding anymore. I'm not playing around with you, this isn't a fucking game. He's dangerous." Nothing. "Is this because of Louis? Is he doing your head in, or something?"

"God, Nick. You talk so fucking much."

"I'm being serious, Harry. Like, no fucking around anymore. I know you weren't doing amazing before he came either, but you weren't doing Oli-bad, so is that what this is about?"

Harry closes his eyes. He's got a feeling that Nick's not going to leave this without an explanation, so he gives him one. "Louis said I have no one that cares about me, so I went to Oli."

"The fuck? Why'd he say that to you? I thought he was nice."

"He is. Wasn't like that." He sighs, his breath fogging up the glass. "He's worried about me. Thinks I've isolated myself."

"You have."

"Nick. Shut the fuck up, maybe."

Nick scoffs. "Louis can worry, but I can't? When I've been the one who's stuck by your arse for the last few years? That's fucking -- "

"You're just my drug dealer," Harry says flatly, repeating Louis' words.

It shuts Nick up for the rest of the ride home. When they pull up to his flat, a still not happy Nick practically drags him inside. Harry's a bit more sobered up by now, so the force of it isn't all that necessary. 

Louis' half-asleep on the couch when they get in. At first, he looks confused, but when he processes and digests the situation, he looks downright defeated. Not even disappointed anymore, and it's not even been that long since Louis' lived with him. 

"Take this, please," Nick grumbles, helping Harry to the couch. Louis sits up, making room for Harry, who shrinks away into the corner the best he can. 

"Is he high?"

Nick nods. 

"On what? Like, is he okay?"

"I'm _fine_ ," Harry huffs, annoyed. He's high on fucking Xanax, not completely inebriated. He sits up more and sighs loudly, earning an unimpressed expression from the both of them. 

Nick's face softens for a reason Harry doesn't understand, and the anger slowly drizzles out of him. He shrugs a shoulder at him before asking, "Just, what'd you take? Just so we know."

Harry glances down at his hands in his lap. He feels so pathetic, sometimes. And he hates that Nick is making a big deal out of this; he's not worried about what Harry's high on, he's just irritated about the whole Oli thing, so he's punishing Harry by embarrassing him in front of Louis. It's quite twisted of him, honestly. "I just took some benzos," he murmurs, shrugging. "Just Xanax, I think."

Nick scoffs, looking off to the side. "Oh, cheers. You'll get addicted to that in, like, two seconds."

"Nick, just go home," Harry says, irritation bleeding through his words. He's already going to get another _‘I'm worried about you’_ talk from Louis, he doesn't need to hear it from Nick as well. "I'll call you tomorrow, or something."

"You do that," Nick replies. "Call me, though, and not Oli, alright?"

"He's my _friend_."

Nick shakes his head. "He's not." He takes a step back before saying goodbye to Louis and leaving, and then it's just Harry and Louis.

Harry closes his eyes and sets his forehead on his forearm. The weight of Louis' stare is too much to handle right now, so he doesn't meet it. After a moment of heavy silence, there's some noises of shifting and then a blanket is being wrapped around Harry's shoulders. Harry opens his eyes slightly and wraps it around him tighter, appreciatively. It's the blanket that Harry normally has thrown across the back of the couch, except it smells nice and feels softer than it did last time he used it.

"You wash this?" he asks quietly. 

Louis nods at him. "Yeah. I did the dishes, too. Been a bit bored this morning."

Harry nods back once before closing his eyes again. He falls asleep quickly, and doesn't wake up again until five hours later to Louis shaking him awake and telling him that he's leaving for work. 

"I made dinner for you," he says, just as he's about to leave. "It's on the stove."

"Thanks," Harry whispers. He doesn't look at Louis, can't. He feels too fucking stupid.

-

The next day, Louis' working the night shift again, so neither of them have anything to do during the day. 

"Don't you work today?" Louis asks when Harry comes out into the living room for the first time that morning around noon. Harry scratches at his bare chest as he eyes Louis tiredly. 

"I don't work there anymore. Shouldn't you be sleeping? You got home at, like, six this morning."

Louis waves him off and says he got a few hours already. Harry doesn't question him on it before nodding and wandering to the kitchen. He's not really hungry or thirsty, so he kind of just stands in front of the fridge for a long moment until grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. He takes a long sip from it, and it does feel nice on his throat. 

He goes back to the living room and finds his phone stuffed between the couch cushions. There's two texts waiting from him, one from Nick and one from Oli. He opens the one from Nick first. 

_Harry, mate. I mean it. Oli is a big no-no_ , is what Nick's says. _Can I come over later? I'll bring pizzzaaaaa_ , is what Oli's says. 

_Of course x_ he texts Oli back, ignoring Nick's text. It's not even like Harry thinks Nick's wrong about Oli, or something; he knows that Oli isn't good for him, and that he needs just as much help from a mental health professional as Harry probably does, but -- Oli makes him feel loved. Loved and adored and cherished, sometimes, and that weighs out the times that he doesn't make Harry feel that way. He understands Nick is just trying to look out for him, but right now, Oli is good. Oli is nice and kind and bringing pizza over later, and Harry does that thing like he always does when he lets Oli come back into his life by promising himself he'll cut him off as soon as Oli stops being like that. 

"Oli's coming over later," Harry murmurs, not looking up from his phone. "He's bringing pizza. Do you want some before work? I can ask him to come by before you leave."

Louis is quiet for a moment, so Harry glances over at him. He's chewing on his bottom lip, looking some type of way. "Nick doesn't seem too fond of Oli," Louis says slowly. "Is there a reason for that?"

Harry shrugs and looks back down at his phone. "He just doesn't like it when I have friends around that aren't him. It's nothing." A sharp twist of self-hatred curls hotly in Harry's stomach. He shouldn't be making up lies about Nick in order to defend Oli. That's not -- Nick is much better to him that Oli has ever been. 

"Nick doesn't seem to be the jealous type."

Harry doesn't respond to that. 

Louis isn't done, though. He still hasn't learned how far Harry shrinks back into his shell when people press him like this. "So, do all your friends get you high, then?"

Harry snorts, ignoring how stupid that makes him feel. "Only the ones I like," he says sharply, hoping that gives Louis the message to back off.

"Alright," Louis breathes, clearly over Harry's inability to answer a question properly. He sits up and grabs the remote of the table before laying back against the couch pillow. "Have him 'round before I leave for work, then. I guess I would like to meet him."

Oli is threatened by Louis, and it's made clear as soon as walks in the door and presses a bruising kiss to Harry's lips. It makes Harry uncomfortable -- why is it that people feel so entitled to him so quickly? -- and Louis makes an unimpressed noise low in his throat. The air in the room becomes suffocating quickly, so Harry grabs the pizza from Oli's hands and takes it to the kitchen. 

Both of them follow. It makes Harry feel trapped. 

"So, what do you do, Oli?" Louis asks, and Harry cringes at his tone. It sounds condescending and bitchy, and Harry's hands shake as he grabs the plates from the cabinet. 

This feels awfully close to how he felt whenever things were heating up between his parents. 

"Business," Oli replies, his tone matching Louis' perfectly. "Harry tells me you're a nurse?"

"I am."

Oli laughs shortly. "Couldn't make it as a doctor, then?"

Harry turns quickly to see Louis narrow his eyes, and Harry shoots him a desperate look. He shakes his head once, hoping Louis understands his plea. _Don't take the bait._

If he had asked that of Oli, Oli would've brushed it off. Louis, though. Louis nods at him and ignores Oli's jab, and comes over to grab a slice of pizza from the box. 

Oli, clearly irritated Louis didn't snap back, sighs loudly. "Alright, I'm going to the bathroom."

"Okay," Harry calls after him weakly. He's not sure why he feels so shaken up, but he does. He looks back down at the pizza box and puts a slice of pizza on his plate before closing the box, and before he can turn and go to the living room, Louis grabs his wrist. 

"You look _scared_ ," Louis whispers, obviously concerned. "He's not that much of a dick to _you_ , is he?"

"He's my friend," Harry says, feeling awfully close to crying, for some reason. 

Louis frowns deeply and runs his finger over the inside of Harry's wrist. "I'm starting to think that you need better friends, mate."

"Just don't -- don't start anything with him, please."

Louis shakes his head, looking puzzled. "You deserve so much better than all this, Harry."

The bathroom door opens, and Louis has enough sense to let him go before Oli sees. 

Oli is agitated for the rest of the night, so when he leaves, Harry's almost thankful. He doesn't like it when Oli gets so snippy, doesn't like it when he reaches over to pinch Harry's arse or hip every few minutes just because he feels like he has something to prove. He usually doesn't get this way until a few months after they've been talking again, and Harry desperately wishes that he's only acting like this now because Louis set him off earlier. He's craving affection so badly right now, and normally Oli will give that to him excessively for the first few weeks. 

At six-thirty in the morning, Harry's sitting on the bathroom floor, crying his eyes out in the aftermath of a panic attack. He had been expecting one all night; Louis and Oli both got his nerves so fried today, it was almost a given that it was going to happen. He didn't expect it to be so bad that his hands went numb and he genuinely feared he was going to pass out, though. He thought it'd be a little one. 

He sits there crying for a long time, and it would've been longer if Louis didn't get home at seven. He closes the front door quietly, but it's still loud enough for Harry to hear it, giving him a warning that he needs to get his shit together quickly. He picks up the wads of toilet paper on the ground and throws them away and grabs the razor blade he dug out from under the sink -- he didn't cut, and he wasn't go to, but knowing he has the option to comforts him in a sick, twisted way he can't understand himself -- and shoves it under all the crap he found it under so Louis won't find it. He wipes the tears off his face, washes away the dried ones clinging to his cheeks, takes a deep breath, and steps out of the bathroom. 

Louis' standing there, looking like he was about to knock or say something. "Oh," he murmurs, looking over Harry. "You're awake early."

Up late, more like. Harry hasn't gone to bed yet. 

Harry gives him a weak smile as a response.

'You've been crying," Louis points out. He looks disappointed, almost. "Is everything alright?"

"It's fine, Louis," Harry mumbles, stepping around him to go to his room. Louis follows him, and Harry hates it, but he doesn't stop him from coming into his room. Doing that will just make Louis worry more. Harry does ignore him, though, and crawls underneath his blankets, making himself small. 

Louis turns on the light, causing Harry to flinch away from it. "I don't think I can do this anymore," he says, maybe too loudly. "Clearly everything's not fine, clearly you're just as bad as you were when I left you, and I don't like you shutting down every time I ask what's wrong."

Harry rolls his eyes. He doesn't understand why Louis doesn't see that they aren't friends anymore, not really. At least, not close enough that Louis' stubbornness and intrusiveness is seen as passionate caring, because it's not. Harry sees it as being plain fucking _rude_ , because Louis seems to think Harry _has_ to tell him what's going on with him, and he doesn't.

"I don't like that Oli bloke," Louis says decidedly when Harry doesn't respond. "I think I agree with Nick."

"I don't fucking care what you think, Louis," Harry snaps, sitting up. " _I_ like him, and he's _my_ friend, so I don't see why you think you even get to have an opinion on him."

"Because he makes you anxious, and I don't like that."

" _Everything_ makes me anxious."

"Yeah, and I don't like that either."

Harry scoffs, throwing his hands up. "Sorry? What the fuck do you want me to say to that?"

Louis stares at him for a long moment before sighing loudly. "I'll drop it for now," he says slowly, "but I don't -- I really would like it if you started opening up to me a little more."

Harry rolls his eyes again as he lays back down. He pulls the covers over his shoulder and lays on his side, facing away from Louis. He's not planning on responding, but when Louis doesn't leave, he does. "I don't know you anymore."

"Fair enough," Louis agrees easily. "It's been a while, I understand that. But I promise you, I'm not all that different than I was before. I still want what is best for you."

Harry doesn't say anything, and Louis sighs before leaving Harry's room. He goes to the kitchen, and, judging by the noises he makes, he gets himself a cup of water before going to the bathroom and taking a quick shower. Harry listens intently, trying to focus on Louis and Louis alone. He drops something in the shower. Harry can't figure out what it is; it sounded too loud to be the soap but too quiet to be the shampoo bottle. After he gets out of the shower, he goes to his room. Harry wonders what he's doing. 

And then there's more walking around, and then Louis' in his room again. Harry doesn't have to turn around to know it. 

"I'm really tired, Louis," Harry says quietly when Louis invites himself into Harry's bed. He stays above the blankets, but Harry wishes he weren't so close right now. He always feels like an exposed nerve after a panic attack, and Louis' closeness doesn't help. But maybe Louis' caught on to the fact that Harry lets pretty much everyone into his bed. 

"Just let me talk for a little while," Louis says, and, well. Harry can't really say no to that; it wasn't a question. 

Louis starts from the beginning. Well, not the very beginning; he skips to the time after he and Harry stopped talking. "I had a few friends on campus," he says. "A girl named Hannah, and a bloke named William. This guy called Connor was my roommate, and he was. . . a proper nitwit, to be honest. Completely privileged; grew up in a fancy neighborhood with a maid, and everything. His parents were paying for his schooling. He was going into neurosurgery."

"Louis," Harry murmurs when he pauses for a second. He's just so tired. 

Louis ignores him. 

"I didn't go out a lot," he continues. "I wanted to. I really did. My mates all drank every night and loved to party, but, like -- I couldn't risk screwing up school. I needed to do well. And I did. You would've been proud of me, Harry. I became a little school boy. I even had, like, three different colored highlighters." He laughs quietly, and Harry swallows roughly around a lump in his throat. 

"I am proud of you," he forces himself to say. He lets his eyes open, stares at the desk next to his bed that hasn't been used in years. It has a bunch of clothes sprawled over it. "Nursing school isn't easy. Moving to a different country isn't, either. I know that."

"Well, no, it wasn't. Wasn't easy at all." He must not like Harry's interruption, because he quickly keeps talking before Harry has a chance to do it again. "I went into my first real relationship at the end of my first year. His name was Chris. He was in graphic design. We lasted, like, eight months. He cheated on me with some girl, so -- "

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers immediately. He knows what that feels like. Oli and him aren't exclusive anymore and haven't been for a long time, but when they were, Oli wasn't faithful to him. And he didn't even try to hide it. He’s pretty sure that’s what hurt the most.

"Don't be," Louis says with a short laugh. "Honestly. We wouldn't have lasted long, anyway. It didn't really break my heart." He sighs before moving on with his story. "America was uneventful. Honest. I did school and worked. My first job was at an assisted living facility. I quit that after a patient died from negligence. And then I worked at a department store for about two years. Quit that for a job at the hospital I ended up working at for real after school."

He takes a deep breath. "I was kind of sad, most of the time. Feels stupid to tell that to you, when you're legitimately depressed, but I was."

Harry doesn't correct him on that. He is legitimately depressed. He knows that. He's been diagnosed, if you can call what he received in uni a diagnosis. He could snap at Louis, tell him to fuck off again, but there's no point in doing that. Louis' just being truthful. 

"Missed my family a lot," Louis murmurs. "I came back to Doncaster only a handful of times. Plane tickets are ridiculously expensive, if you didn't know." It's quiet, and Harry knows what he's going to say before he says it. He closes his eyes, braces himself. "Missed you, too," Louis says, voice barely above a whisper. "Like, a lot. I was constantly worried about you. And I thought -- I thought reaching out to ask if you were okay would make things worse for you, so I didn't."

"It would've," Harry agrees. If Louis had texted him after they stopped talking, even if it was only to check in, it would've been a painful reminder of what he lost. Of who he lost. 

"My mum told me about that time you came to her with a concussion," Louis tells him. He sounds hesitant. "She was scared for you. She told me the doctors said it was serious, and that your brain was swelling."

Harry's chest stutters. He doesn't want to remember that. He went into the hospital with Jay thinking they'd check his eyes and tell him he's okay, but he got sent into room after room. The doctors did a lot of scans. They were concerned, and Harry felt like the world was ending. 

"Barely," Harry mumbles. "It was just a little swollen. I wouldn't have, like, died, or anything."

"I was bloody terrified," Louis says. "My mum was updating me. Like every fifteen minutes, she'd text me saying that she had to persuade you into staying again." 

Harry turns onto his back. He doesn't have the courage to look at Louis, so he stares up at the ceiling instead. "Why are you telling me all this?" he asks.

Louis' reply is immediate. "You said you didn't know me anymore, so there. That's all there is to know."

"So, what? You expect me to, like, pour my heart out to you now?"

"No," Louis says softly. "I mean, I'd really like it if you told me _something_ , but you don't have to."

And that's new. This entire time, Louis has been practically begging and insisting that Harry told him everything, and now he's asking for nothing. He's saying he'd be completely fine if Harry decided to turn around and go to sleep. 

For a moment, Harry thinks that's exactly what he's going to do, but he decides against it. It's scary, how hard it is to even _think_ about opening up to Louis, to anyone, but he forces down the roar in his chest and takes a deep breath. 

"I dropped out of uni because I wasn't okay," he says, probably too fast. He grabs the blanket that slipped off his shoulders when he turned to his back and pulls it up to his chin. "I was depressed. Severely depressed, a doctor told me once. And I just couldn't handle it all anymore." He reaches up to wipe at his nose, which has gone all runny now. He doesn't feel like he's going to cry, though, which is good. "I tried making myself. That's why I even enrolled in a second year. But -- but I started to scare myself, so I gave up and dropped out."

There'd been one night, exactly a week before he finally dropped out, that he had cut so deep that he sincerely thought he was going to die. He sat there, bleeding out on the bathroom floor, clutching his inner thigh, and the bleeding wouldn't stop. He was worked up over a test he had the next day, so he decided to cut, and he just wasn't paying enough attention. 

The scar embedded into his inner thigh was made that night, and the reason why it looks so ugly is because it kept reopening. Even walking was painful; his jeans always felt suffocating, and whenever his thighs brushed passed each other those first few weeks, he felt faint. 

So he dropped out.

"You did not give up," Louis says sternly. So sternly that Harry looks at him. He looks angry. "You made the best choice for yourself. That's not giving up. University is difficult, and trying to do it when your mental health is shit makes it a hell of a lot harder."

Harry looks away and nods once. It _was_ hell. And it -- it was hard, too. So hard. Not even the school part. That was stressful, but everything else was terrible too. All of it, every single bit, was painful to endure. 

"You went to the doctors, though?" Louis asks, overly-gentle. He's worried he's going to scare Harry off. 

"A few times." He shrugs like it was no big deal. Like he wasn't so nervous he thought he was going to puke before each and every appointment, but especially the first one. "Filled out a form, got some meds to help me sleep. Wasn't anything special."

Harry sighs quietly before turning on his side again. He's done talking. He's genuinely exhausted, and all that talking made it worse. Louis seems to understand and doesn't press him on it. He doesn't leave either, though. And that’s new. Even when the people he’s slept with stay, it doesn’t feel like this. 

When Harry wakes up four hours later, Louis is sound asleep in his bed, his arms crossed over his chest like he's cold. And it makes Harry feel so cared for that he cries for a little while.

-

Harry cuts again four days later. 

Oli just kept getting on him about it, asking him all these questions, and Harry finally broke. He finally caved in and sliced his skin open again, purely because a man he fucks around with likes it better that way. 

"It'd just be one cut," Oli grunted into his ear earlier that morning. He had Harry pressed tightly against his chest, arms wound around his waist, as he fucked him in front of a mirror. His fingers trailed through Harry's scars. "Could be kind of hot, no? You're so pale; it would stick out, just like a tattoo." His hand moved to press against Harry's tattoo on his lower stomach. "Nobody's saying you have to do it more than once. Could be a game, kind of. . . See if you could refrain from doing it again. Bet you could. You're strong now, huh?" He bit down at Harry's shoulder so hard that he yelped. "Show me just how strong you are, love. Do it once, and then don't do it ever again."

He knew that Harry would do it more than once. Harry knew that. Once he starts, he cannot stop. And Oli likes it that way. Sees it as owning Harry, in a way. Like the cuts are just like hickies. 

He does it while Louis' still at work. He grabs the blade, sits down on the bathtub's ledge, pulls down his gray sweats, and then freezes. He's almost at seven months clean. That's the longest he's ever gotten to. How did he even let Oli get into his head? He told himself he wouldn't let that happen again. He told himself that he'd be stronger this time. 

The urge to do it becomes stronger and stronger the angrier he gets with himself, and barely a minute into trying to convince himself not to, he brings the teeth of the blade down to his skin and does it. 

As soon as the blood comes rushing out, he swears. "Jesus fucking Christ," he spits, shaking his head at himself. He's so fucking stupid. "Fucking idiot, fucking shit, stupid fucking idiot, _fuck_." He reaches forward and grabs a few squares of toilet paper and presses them over the cut. It's not very deep, but it's still bleeding. He still made himself bleed. On purpose. It still counts. 

He flushes the bloody toilet paper, grabs a new once and sticks it over the cut, pulls his sweats up, and goes into his room. He tucks the bloodied razor blade into a folder he has sitting on his nightstand for later -- and yes, there's going to be a later, he can feel it. And you know what? He welcomes it. He doesn't fucking care anymore. He's so fucking dumb. He doesn't deserve to be clean. 

He cries, then. He made it over half a year, and now he's bleeding again. 

Like he knows, Nick calls him a few minutes later, and Harry picks up. He doesn't even know why he does, but he does. 

"Oh, love," Nick whispers when he hears how loud Harry's crying. "Are you having a panic attack? Is that -- is that what this is?"

"I did it again," Harry chokes out angrily. "I fucking -- I fucking did it again, Nick. I -- I did it again. _Shit_."

They've never, ever directly talked about Harry's habit of digging razor blades into his skin. Nick is too squeamish for that, and Harry doesn't like talking about it much, but right now he doesn't feel like he could keep it inside if he tried. He's so angry with himself, and he needs someone else to tell him how stupid he is.

"Harry. . . " Nick sounds so disappointed. They haven't talked about it, no, but a few weeks ago, Nick was going down on him and he pressed a kiss to Harry's thigh and told him to keep it up. He felt awkward doing it, it was obvious, but it still meant a lot to Harry. 

"I'm such a fucking idiot," Harry snaps. "I -- God, why am I like this? Why am I so fucking stupid?"

"This is exactly what I was talking about when I said that Oli isn't good for you."

"It's not Oli's fucking fault!" Harry shouts, standing up from his bed. "He didn't hold me down and do it, I did it myself."

Nick sounds angry now. "And you're seriously going to tell me that Oli has nothing to do with it? You've barely started talking to him again, and you've already fucking -- fucking cut yourself again, like you're some fucking -- some fucking -- I don't even know what. You do fucking realize that that's not normal, right? That not everybody goes around slicing their skin when they're a little fucking stressed out? You're -- you're fucked in the head, yes, but doing that to yourself is taking it a bit too far, isn't it?"

Harry feels breathless. He has to sit back down. When he does, he realizes he has blood on his sweats. It makes him even more sad. "I know I'm stupid," Harry cries pitifully. "You don't have to be so mean about it."

"But you're not stupid, Harry, that's my whole fucking point! You're -- you're not the brightest bulb in the box by far, but -- Christ. You're not an idiot. You do have some common sense. And whenever Oli is around, you seem to lose what intelligence you do have."

Harry just cries some more. 

Nick sighs. "If I had Louis' phone number, I'd call him right now. Tell on you for acting so stupid. You're not a kid anymore, Harry. You've got to take some accountability for yourself. You have to start looking after yourself."

Again, Harry offers no coherent response. Again, Nick sighs. "If I come over there and give you something to help you calm the fuck down, would that be okay?"

"Yes," Harry agrees immediately. "Yes, yes, that's -- please. Just something to take my mind off of it. Please."

"Alright. Fine. I'll be over in ten. Try not to fucking stab yourself for fun until I get there, alright?"

When Nick comes by, he gives Harry two pills. He's about to leave when he notices the blood on Harry's sweats, and he sighs and pulls them off of Harry like he's a child. Harry lets it happen under the guise of he's starting to feel the effects of the drugs, even though he's not yet. Nick chucks his stained pants somewhere and, with a grimace, peels off the toilet paper sticking to Harry's thigh.

"That's disgusting, Harry," Nick says, staring down at the cut. "That's fucking. . . " He trails off before leaving to throw the toilet paper away. He comes back with a band-aid and puts it on for Harry, throws the bits of garbage on the floor. He digs through Harry's clutter before finding another pair of sweats and he throws them at Harry, who has some trouble getting them on. Whatever Nick gave him was strong. 

He leaves Harry like that, slumped in his bed and high, and that's exactly how Louis finds him two hours later. He's a bit sobered up by then, the worst of it over, and manages to promise Louis that he's fine and just a little high. 

"On what?" Louis asks worriedly, petting at Harry's hair. "You look super out of it."

"That's kind of the point."

Louis sighs and leaves his room, only to come back every fifteen minutes to check on him. After the fourth time, Harry is almost completely down from his high, and he sits up when Louis knocks on the door, announcing his presence. 

"Promise I'm fine," Harry mumbles, and to prove it, he stands. He winces a bit as his sweats brush past his cut, and he probably stood up too soon, but he doesn't do anything dramatic like faint or die, so he doesn't care. He scoots past Louis to get to the bathroom, and after he pees and washes his face off, he goes to the kitchen and grabs a beer. 

Immediately, Louis protests. "No," he snaps, striding over. He grabs the bottle from Harry's hand and puts it back in the fridge, a little too roughly. "You can be sober for more than five minutes. I promise you, you can handle it."

"It's a beer."

"And you probably still have drugs in your system, and I don't feel comfortable with you mixing the two." He looks genuinely stressed, so Harry decides to leave it and grabs a banana off the counter. He heads to his room, and he's not too surprised when Louis follows him. 

"What did you take?" Louis asks. 

Harry shrugs. "Don't know, if I'm honest." He sits on the edge of the bed and grabs his phone. There's messages from Oli. He wants to hang out tomorrow. Harry types out a yes, even though he wants to say no. But why should he? Oli didn't force him to hurt himself. He did that himself.

"Harry," Louis says, astonished. "You can't just trust people to give you -- "

"Nick's a clean dealer," Harry interrupts. He doesn't look up from his phone. 

"Harry. Seriously?"

"Seriously," Harry echoes. He peels the banana and takes a bite, and then turns to look at Louis. "He deals to famous people, so he has to be careful. And none of them have dropped dead, have they, so I'm fine."

Louis scoffs quietly. "Then can you tell me at least why you felt the need to get blindingly high in the middle of the day, by yourself? Can you at least tell me that?"

And no, Harry can't, so he just lays back in bed after setting the rest of the banana on his nightstand. He clumsily pulls the blankets over himself, and Louis looks beyond furious. 

He leaves it, though. Again. 

-

A week later, there's ten more cuts pressed into Harry's thighs, and he hates himself more than he ever has before. 

Last night, Nick saw them right before they were about to fuck, and he immediately pulled away and stormed out. Harry's been calling him all morning and he won't pick up. So he adds three more, makes it an even seven on each leg, and then cries in the shower until Louis gets home. 

He can't stop. He seriously, seriously can't stop. It's like he's back in his senior year and uni, and everything feels like it can be solved by cutting and cutting only. It's so bad. He's so ashamed of himself, and he's even a bit scared. 

Louis' barely talking to him, understandably so. Harry's been a dick all week. He's just so pissed at himself, and he feels like he can't help but explode every time someone talks to him. And since Louis and Nick are the only people who talk to him aside from Oli, they get most of Harry’s outbursts.

He doesn't yell at Oli. Sometimes it feels like he can't. He doesn't know why. 

After he gets out of the shower and Louis' home, he tries calling Nick again. It goes straight to voicemail. It's the tenth time that day. 

"Nick, please," he begs quietly. He's in the kitchen, and Louis' only a few feet away in the living room. "I know I fucked up, alright, but you've never made a big deal out of it before. Just call me back. Please. I want to go out with you and your friends soon. Have a proper night out. Haven't had one in ages."

He ends the voicemail with a sigh, and as soon as he does, Louis stands from the couch and heads over to him, looking determined. 

"If you go out," Louis says, "I want to come with you."

Harry frowns, confused. "Why?"

"Nick seems like he could keep some interesting company," Louis mutters, and, well. Okay. Harry’s not going to argue. Louis can come if he wants to. 

A few minutes later, when Harry's in his room again, Nick texts him. 

_I've never made a big deal out of it before because it's never been a big deal before_ , is what the first message reads, referring to Harry's latest voicemail. The second one below it reads: _And fine, I'll pick you up at 10. Don't be a pissy cunt tonight or I'll leave you at the pub._

Harry just sends him a thumbs up emoji. 

THEN. 

Sometimes, he gets paranoid when he’s high. He’s been known to have a bad trip or two, or three or four. It doesn’t matter. Someone told him once that he shouldn’t do hallucinogens unless he’s in a good mental state, that those demons in his head will come out to play in real life, but Harry doesn’t think him being messed up in the head is a fair enough reason to exclude himself from the fun, and he doesn’t know if he believes that person, anyway. 

It’s mental, the places he’s brain goes. Everything looks dark and distorted, and it feels like someone is holding him tight from behind the entire time he’s laying in Oli’s friend’s bed, completely out of his mind and terrified. Too high to move, or maybe too scared to. The things creeping around on the floor aren’t ones that Harry wants to get any closer to. 

It gets worse when Oli and his friends leave him alone in the room, saying something about a program that’s on that’d be fun to watch while tripping on acid. 

It lasts ten hours, the worst of it. At hour six, Oli takes him back to his house, and Harry lays in the back, covering his head with his arms because everything outside looks scary and Oli isn’t driving great and the feeling of being watched is starting to really, really get to him. 

Afterwards, when he’s in Oli’s flat and his brain is still going a little haywire and the feeling of weight against him hasn’t faded, he feels numb. Gone, kind of. A good trip on acid is amazing, but this. . . this wasn’t that. And it wasn’t even the worst trip he’s had before, so he doesn’t know why he feels so shaken up by it. 

Oli is annoyed with him all day. Keeps calling him a baby and a downer and tells him that he needs to chill the fuck out, because they’re going back to John’s house tonight to do more acid and play video games. Harry tries to tell him no, tries to make it clear that he doesn’t want to do that again right now, especially since he’s barely come off the last trip, but Oli doesn’t really give him a choice. And when they’re at John’s and people are giving him a hard time about his hesitance, he sucks it up and goes along with it. 

He doesn’t know how he ends up at Nick’s, wailing his heart out against the basement floor. He’s pretty sure he’s never been in the basement before, but he’s there, and Nick’s telling him to calm the fuck down and to stop and that his dad’s not here, that he’s hallucinating. And Harry believes him, only for a moment before he touches the ground and it’s black and gooey and it feels like he’s falling. 

Nick’s incredibly pissed at him once Harry comes down, and Harry learns why in bits and pieces. Nick’s bleeding. A bite mark on his forearm. Harry’s bleeding. Scratch marks on his torso. There’s a few voicemails and texts from unknown numbers, presumably from Oli’s friends that they were out with, telling him that he shouldn’t be out right now and that Oli shouldn’t be driving and to text them where he is, please. One says that John isn’t mad at him for breaking the window. 

Nick eventually tells him what happened in full. Harry called him at four in the morning speaking complete fucking gibberish, and he was scared and kept talking about how he didn’t want to cut himself on the glass. Oli was in the background, screaming at Harry that he should kill himself, should hop out the window. Harry couldn’t give him an address, even though he really wanted to leave, so Oli got mad and dragged him out of the house (Nick thinks, he doesn’t know, and Harry doesn’t remember) and to his car, where he drove to Nick’s and shoved him out of the car before driving away again. Nick had a shouting, sobbing Harry on his front lawn at four-thirty in the morning, and Nick had to promise his next door neighbor Ms. Sharon that Harry was safe with him after she saw him literally dragging Harry inside by his shirt. And then Harry went batshit inside, screaming and crying and trying to break things, and he fell halfway down the stairs, and that’s when Harry bit him. 

“I’ve never seen you act that way,” Nick tells him, trying to sound stern but sounding more worried than anything. Harry is sitting on the couch, tucked into the corner, trying to remember any of that. He can’t. 

“I was high,” he defends lamely. 

Nick scoffs. “I’ve seen you high, asshole. And you’ve never, ever acted that way in the slightest. The worst trip you’ve had with me is that time you got too high on coke and walked into a fucking telephone pole.”

Harry rubs at his nose, feeling self-conscious and exposed. 

“He probably didn’t give you something clean,” Nick says, and Harry shakes his head.

“It wasn’t Oli’s supply. Don’t blame him. Please.”

Nick throws a couch pillow at him that Harry doesn’t catch before it hits his face. Harry grabs it and presses it to his chest, not looking at Nick. “He drove while high on acid,” Nick snaps. “He forced you into a car with him. He could’ve killed you then, or when he was encouraging you to jump out of a goddamn window, or when he told you it was a good idea to trip on acid two consecutive nights in a row, especially after you had a bad trip the night before.”

“I know,” Harry says, voice a little croaky. “I know. I’m -- shit, I’m sorry.”

Nick sighs, shakes his head and tells him that the next time this happens, he’s going to leave Harry on the front lawn and let the police handle it.

NOW. 

Nick is pleased to see Louis clambering into his car, judging by the small, amused smirk on his face. Harry climbs in after him, sitting in the back seat with Louis, and shuts the door. Nick's friend Aimee is in the front and Harry leans forward to press a kiss to her cheek as a greeting before sitting back down. 

He can feel Louis' glare before he sees it. He thinks maybe it's about the kiss on the cheek, but when he sends Louis a questioning glance, Louis scowls. "Your seatbelt, you idiot," he snaps quietly, and Harry laughs a little before doing as he's told. 

"So, Tomlinson," Nick starts. He turns out of their parking lot sharply. "No work this evening?"

Louis shakes his head. "No. Not tonight."

"Tomorrow?"

Louis nods. "Morning, yeah."

"We'll be keeping you out late," Nick warns. "Unless you plan on calling a cab."

Louis eyes Harry sharply. He's mad at him. He's just doing this to keep an eye on Harry, and because of that, Harry doesn't feel bad that he's probably going to get an hour of sleep tonight. He needs to understand that Harry's fine like this. That it's his life, and he knows that maybe it's a bit shit in some areas, but it's alright. 

He's unemployed, has no family, and has a nasty habit of burying metal into his skin, but it's alright. Could be worse. It could be someone else hurting him, like how it used to be. Yeah, that was definitely worse. 

They park around the back of some shitty-looking club, and Nick kills the ignition. He turns to Harry and grins at him. "This place is a bit strict with the drugs, so we have to do it before we get in."

Louis shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Harry just nods, unbuckles his seatbelt, and slides to the middle seats so he can reach Nick better. From here, he can see Aimee already rolling some dollar bills, and well, coke isn't Harry's favorite, but it'll have to do. 

Nick and Aimee both snort two lines each and then it's Harry's turn. He grabs the rolled dollar from Nick, who's wiping at his nose with his other hand, and lowers his face so he's closer to the console. He does the first one quickly -- it always hurts a bit, so he tries to be quick about it -- and as he goes to snort the second one, sniffling, Louis gets out of the car and slams the door behind him. 

"Someone's a bit moody," Aimee mumbles. She sets her hand on Harry's hand, shoves her fingers through his curls. "Don't let him bother you, love."

"He's not bothering me, it’s alright."

The second line makes Harry a little lightheaded, so Nick keeps a firm arm around his waist when they walk up to the door. Aimee is in front of them, talking on the phone with one of their friends that they’re meeting here, and Louis stays a few paces behind them. He's already so irritated, Harry can tell. 

The high is short lived -- that's why Harry's not a big fan of cocaine -- so they immediately ride it out in the sea of people, getting lost in themselves and each other, their veins vibrating along with the music. Nick's grinding on him from behind, and Aimee's in front of Harry and he's pretty sure he's supposed to be grinding against her, too, but he feels too far away to do more than lean back against Nick and float. 

The most intense part of the high is over within a half hour. By the time Harry's settled into his own skin again, just barely buzzing, Nick's already come off it -- he has a much higher tolerance than Harry ever will. Aimee shoos them off to buy drinks, and Harry lets himself be dragged to the bar. There's a tall man next to Harry, who Harry immediately shoots a shy smile. They like that, like to think that he's this little innocent, nervous boy.

As the man slides closer to him, belatedly, Harry realizes he doesn't know where Louis is. He asks Nick, ignoring how the stranger's arm slides around his waist (it's always so, so easy, how could Harry resist doing it?). 

"He's sitting over there," Nick shouts over the music, motioning to a table not too far from here. Louis' already staring at him, and Harry feels himself blush. "Told him to save us a table, if he wasn't going to dance." Nick glances over at Harry and sees the tall man clinging to Harry already. He snorts. "Who's this?"

"Peter," the guy introduces. His hand lowers to squeeze Harry's bum. It's a bit hard, so Harry gasps quietly, turning to look at Peter. He's eyes are a pretty shade of blue. Nothing comparable to Louis’, though.

"Nick," Nick introduces. He motions to Harry. "That invalid there is called Harry."

"He's not yours, is he?" Peter asks. His hand is still firmly planted on Harry's arse. It’s hard to work out if he’s cocky, or just plain stupid.

"Only sometimes," Nick says with a wink, bumping his hip against Harry's. 

The wait for their drinks is horribly long, so Harry passes the time by making out with Peter. He's not that good of a kisser, and he's a bit too grabby with Harry's bum -- it's nice, yes, but he's wearing tight jeans that pull against his fresh cuts too roughly whenever Peter squeezes -- and Harry kind of just wants to be kissing Nick instead, but it's too late now. He's stuck with Peter. 

Until their drinks come, and immediately, Harry pulls off and says goodbye. Peter looks mildly annoyed, so Harry tells the bartender to get him a drink and put it on Nick's tab before following Nick to the table Louis is saving for them. Harry sits beside Louis while Nick sits on the opposite side. 

"Who was that guy? At the bar?" Louis asks. "Is he your friend?"

Harry shrugs and takes a small sip from the drink Nick pushes in front of him. Vodka and cranberry, and maybe something else, he can't tell. "His name is Peter," Harry answers. "Not really my friend."

"Okay. That's -- alright. I was just wondering. But should you be drinking when you just snorted coke, because -- "

"Tomlinson," Nick interrupts with a small laugh. He looks entertained. "He's fine. I'll watch him. He's safe with me, promise."

Harry's chest warms. He's so easy, too. 

"You know," Nick says after a moment. "You're not at all how I pictured you all these years. Harry almost made you out to be some sort of hero. He said you were loads of fun, but right now, you're acting like a nun. You're not even having a drink."

The way Louis' hand comes out to grab a drink from the center of the table seems involuntary. Almost like he's nervous around Nick, like he doesn't want to lose the upper hand he hasn't had all night. Harry eyes him curiously. 

"I don't care that you're here," Nick continues. "Harry's mates are my mates, and all of that. Well, most of them, anyway." He shoots Harry a glare, and Harry rolls his eyes. "It's just, if you didn't come here to dance, or drink, or, like, do anything fun, why did you come here?"

Louis' response is immediate. "Was just curious about what Harry thinks a good night out is, nowadays."

Nick isn't dumb. Neither is Harry. "You came to babysit him, you mean."

"Possibly," Louis relents, not looking all that bothered. He must not care if it's obvious or not. 

Nick scoffs quietly, shaking his hand. He leans in closer to Louis, grinning. "Well, let me tell you something, Louis. You're doing a shit job of taking care of him." With that, he grabs a drink for himself and stands. He rounds the table to pat at Harry's thigh roughly, and Harry bites back the wince but he can't stop himself from grabbing Nick's wrist and pushing his hand away.

"I'm off to find Aimee and the rest of them," Nick tells him, smiling sweetly at him. The cuts on Harry's thigh are throbbing now, and Harry knows that this is Nick's way of telling him to stop doing it. "Come with, if you'd like. Both of you."

Harry stands to follow immediately. Sitting here with Louis sounds terrible, especially after he just saw Harry pry Nick's hand away from his thigh because it hurt. Louis asks him to stay, but Harry ignores him and goes after Nick. 

-

That night, he goes home with Peter and gets fucked for a good fifteen minutes before falling asleep on his sofa, completely naked. He wakes to the sound of his flatmate making breakfast a few feet away the next morning, and he cringes slightly, embarrassed, but doesn't move until she retreats back to her room. 

He's dressing quickly when Peter comes out of his room, looking well-slept. He stares at Harry for a little before clearing his throat. 

"I didn't say anything about them last night, but -- "

"Want me to blow you before I leave?" Harry asks, interrupting. That's his first line of defense when random people he's hooking up with ask him about the scars, and now, the fresh cuts laying on top of them. Not a lot of people ask, but when they do, that's his first line of defense. The second is just leaving. Usually it doesn't come to that, though, because maybe people -- Peter included -- would rather accept a blow job than have an awkward conversation like that with a stranger. 

He gets home around nine o'clock, and Louis' at work, so it's just him. Oli's coming over in an hour, so Harry wastes time watching TV and tries not to think about how sore his throat feels. Peter wasn’t that big, but big enough for it to hurt a little when he pushed against the back of Harry’s throat.

When Oli's there, they cuddle for most of the time on the couch watching the latest season of _Modern Family._ The only times either of them get up is to go to the bathroom, grab something to drink, and to grab the lube from Harry's room. And Oli fucks him so, so gently, even after he seemed to be a bit irritated that Harry was with another man last night and didn't bother to shower before he got here. He kisses softly at Harry's jaw, and he calls him baby a lot, and he spends time cleaning him up afterwards. 

As Oli wipes the come from Harry's belly, leaning down to press little kisses to his chest occasionally, Harry thinks, _this is why he's not bad. This is why I keep him around. This is the part of him that Nick doesn't know_. And he thinks, stupidly and naively, that this makes the rest of him not so bad.

-

Louis accidentally seeing the cuts that evening can be blamed on four things. One: he gets off his shift an hour early. Two: Harry's playing music to calm himself and distract himself from the pain as he dabs away the blood from a cut that reopened after he bumped his thigh against the table. Three: he didn't lock the door. There was no reason to, because Louis wasn't due to be home for another hour. And four: Louis' lack of understanding that a closed door means _don't come in_ , even if it's not locked. 

Harry has his foot propped up against the edge of the counter so he could clean the cut better. His pants are pulled down, and his underwear are on, but Harry moved them further up his thigh so he didn't get them wet. His thigh and its seven cuts are on display, practically, and if that's not incriminating enough, there's clumps of toilet paper on the ground from when Harry dabbed off the blood. 

They stare at each other for what feels like forever. It's actually about ten seconds. Ten seconds; that's how long it takes for the panic to properly set off in Harry's veins, and the pockets of anger and fear to explode in Louis'. 

"What are you _doing_?" Louis asks, eyes wide. He sounds distressed. 

Harry shakes his head and quickly pulls up his sweats. He bends down and grabs the toilet paper off the ground and throws it in the toilet. As it flushes, he grabs his phone and pauses the music that was still playing, and then turns to face Louis, who looks near tears. 

God, how awful would it be if Louis cried?

He pushes passed Louis as gently as possible before going to the kitchen. He wants to hide in his room, but if Louis follows him in there, Harry will feel incredibly trapped, and he doesn't want that. His hands are shaking -- from pain or fear, he isn't sure -- as he opens the fridge and grabs the orange juice Louis bought a little while ago. He's not thirsty, but he needs something to do with his hands. 

He's grabbing a cup from the cupboard when he sees Louis standing there, looking lost. 

Harry's heart slams nervously in his chest, and he tries to calm it, to tell it that everything is okay. He can't have a panic attack right now. That'd be the worst thing possible. 

"I thought you stopped," Louis says quietly, voice hoarse. "I left it alone because I thought you had stopped."

Harry slowly shuts the cabinet. His hands are trembling. "Louis," he warns. "Don't."

"I didn't know if they were from your dad, or if -- if you did it yourself. I wasn't sure." He sounds so -- heartbroken, almost, which is insane. It's not that big of a deal. They'll heal. Eventually. "But I was pretty sure it wasn't your dad, because I couldn't -- I know you didn't really fight back, but I couldn't imagine you allowing him to hold you down and cut you like that."

Harry stares down at the cup. He should probably pour himself the juice, if he's still trying for this whole nonchalance thing, but he can't bring himself to move. 

"There were a lot," Louis whispers. "A lot of new ones, I mean. When -- when did you start doing it again?"

Harry swallows thickly. He's so stupid. He wishes Louis hadn't come home early a fraction more than he wishes he could've stayed clean. Six months down the drain. If he only cut once, he could've ignored it and written it off as a relapse, he still could've held onto being six months strong, but he didn't. He's still at fourteen cuts now. 

He hears Louis move forward slowly. It's like he's scared of Harry, and Harry completely understands that. What kind of person cuts themselves? A not normal one. A scary one. 

He flinches when Louis presses a hand in-between his shoulder blades, but he doesn't push him away. He wants to, he does, it's just. . . . he feels a bit stuck right now. Like he can't move, even if he wants to. His chest heaves, and Louis shushes him. 

"Don't freak out," Louis whispers. "It's. . . It's not okay, but you don't have to freak out. I'm not, like, mad." He sighs quietly, and he's close enough so that his breath fans Harry's neck. "Can I hug you?"

"No," Harry says immediately. He feels able to move now, so he quickly pours himself the drink and moves away from Louis to put the juice back in the fridge. 

"I'm going to Oli's soon," Harry lies, looking down at the ground. "Just, like. Just so you know."

Louis doesn't say anything, so Harry takes it as a sign of defeat and starts walking to his room. Before he even makes it out of the kitchen, Louis says his name and he stops. 

"Did you at least clean them?" His voice wavers. "I don't want you getting an infection."

Harry's grip tightens around the cup in his hands. "They're clean."

"Okay. Okay, that's -- okay." Harry takes a step forward, and then Louis stops him again. "Harry, just -- just please come to me next time. Don't hurt yourself again. Come talk to me. Please. Whatever it is, I can help. I promise. Hurting yourself doesn't help."

It does, though. It does help. Louis' wrong about that. Harry doesn't correct him, and he goes to his room without being stopped again. 

He allows himself ten minutes to panic. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He did this to himself, and his carelessness is half the reason Louis saw them in the first place. He can't get worked up over something that is his fault. 

It's not that easy though, is it. Anxiety isn't something you can reason with, but he tries to do it anyway. Ten minutes. That's all he'll give it. And after that, he's going to drive over to Nick's and hope that he's home. He's too emotionally frayed right now to go to Oli; that's like walking into a lion's den smelling like meat. 

He listens carefully to Louis' movements around his flat. After a little while, he goes to the bathroom, and while he’s in there Harry quickly shoves his shoes on, grabs his keys and tucks his phone in his back pocket. He heads for the front door, and just before he closes it, he hears a loud call of his name. 

He ignores it, of course. 

Driving right now when his hands are shaking probably isn't the best idea, but he makes it to Nick's without killing anyone, and that's all he really can ask for. After he pulls into Nick's driveway, he gets out of his car and heads to the door. Every time he comes here, he can't help but marvel at how nice Nick's house is. It's elegant and hipster-y all at the same time, and inside, there's probably too much space for one person. But Nick isn't usually one to be alone, so there's usually at least two of his four bedrooms always being occupied. 

Harry knocks on the door hesitantly. Afterwards, he wipes at his face to make and fucks with his hair, and then Nick's opening the door. His face falls when he sees Harry, and it almost makes Harry cry -- Oli would've fucking eaten him alive with him being this emotional -- until Nick says, "You are not the delivery man."

Harry swallows. "No. I'm not. Sorry."

"It's fine," Nick says, though he sighs loudly. He opens the door for Harry to come in, and when he does, Harry’s land on a man standing nearby. He looks vaguely familiar, although Harry’s pretty sure they’ve never personally met.

"Daniel, this is Harry," Nick introduces. "Harry, this is Daniel."

Harry waves at him a little stupidly before focusing his attention back on Nick. He doesn’t know what he expects Nick to do for him.

"What are you doing here, Harold?" Nick asks. He doesn't sound annoyed, exactly, more just. . . curious. There's an edge to his voice like he knows that Harry didn't just come here to see him. 

Harry shrugs. "Wanted to hang out."

"Is that code for you wanting more drugs? 'Cause, like, Daniel is here for the same reason. You don't have to be so sneaky."

Harry sighs quietly. He probably shouldn't take anything, even if he wants to. That'll just fuck him up, and then Louis will be more mad at him, and the tension between them is at the point that, at any moment, they’re going to be at each other's throats, and Harry wants to delay that for as long as possible. 

"Me and Louis got in a fight," Harry says to Nick, looking up at him. Nick raises his eyebrows. 

"About?"

Harry gives him a hard yet pleading look. He hopes it sends the message that he wants it to, because he doesn't have the courage to say it out loud. 

Nick nods like he understands. "Oh. That's finally come out, then." And then he turns to Daniel and says, "Harold here likes to cut himself with razor blades. You know, like how you see on TV. Although it's usually girls doing it. Maybe that -- "

"Nick," Harry seethes. He stands slowly, and he gives Nick the meanest glare he can muster right now. "Shut the fuck up. Don't talk about things you don't understand."

He genuinely looks surprised, like that’s the type of shit you just go ahead and tell people. Maybe Nick thinks that’s okay. Maybe Daniel isn’t the first person Nick has told about Harry’s habit. "I understand just fine," Nick says, testing him. 

"Nick, mate," Daniel says quietly, and when Harry glances at him, he's shaking his head. "That's not funny."

Nick scoffs. "I wasn't making a joke."

"Well, that's his shit to deal with," Daniel says. "Not yours. Don't be an ass."

But Nick already crossed the line, a huge line, and Harry feels so fucking stupid for thinking Nick would be any better to him that Oli would. Oli's dangerous, yes, but Nick's also a bit of an dick, and he's been awful to him about his self-harming issue.

Louis was right. He has shit friends. 

"I'm just going to go," Harry chokes out, tears and humiliation burning his eyes. He heads to the door, and similar to how Louis did back home, Nick calls out his name. Harry ignores it. He gets in his car, and his vision is blurry and his hands are shaking and he just wants to go home. But Louis' there, and Louis is angry and disappointed, and he doesn't want to give himself to Oli, so where the fuck is he supposed to go?

He backs out of Nick's driveway and flicks on his blinker without having much of an idea. He drives around aimlessly, and his mind goes through the people in his contact list. A lot of men. A lot of one-night stands. A lot of drunk people he met at bars. But he doesn't want a quick fuck, he wants -- he wants to be fucking held, goddammit. And that's just so fucking pathetic, isn’t it. 

On the sidewalk, there's a lady walking her dog, and a name pops into his head: Lindsey. The girl from Los Angeles. He's pretty sure she's still here, he could -- 

He was cold to her. Before she left, he completely ignored her. She probably doesn't want to see him again, and Harry didn't like her much, but. . . but it's someone. Someone who hasn't hurt him yet, and that's so incredibly selfish, but he pulls over on the side of the road and grabs his phone anyways. 

He finds her name in his contact list and clicks the option to compose a text message. He hesitates on what to say, and he ends up sending, _Are you still in london? Was wondering if you wanted to go out for drinks tonight :)_ The smiley face is so, so stupid, and he regrets it immediately. As he waits for her to respond, he stares at it, wondering why he thought that was the best move. 

As he waits, Louis calls him. Again. There's already three missed calls. And Louis loves too hard and is stubborn, so to avoid anything that could come of Louis being scared that he doesn't know where Harry is exactly, Harry sends him a text. _I'll be home tonight or tomorrow morning. Don't worry about me for dinner._

After about ten minutes of waiting, he finally gets a text back from Lindsey. _I'm with some friends tonight, sorry._

His stomach twists. He chokes on a sob as he puts his head back against the headrest, and he doesn't even know why. Of course she said no. She barely knows him; they fucked once, he was an ass, she left, and they haven't spoken since. Any female would say no after that. 

_That's alright,_ he texts with his jaw clenched and tears running down his face. _Have a nice night. And I'm sorry for being rude last time._ He presses send and chucks his phone somewhere in the passenger seat area. He doesn't want to hear from anyone who might call. Literally anyone.

And that's a scary thought, isn't it. 

He ends up at Oli's, and he's not surprised in the slightest. He had nowhere else to go, and facing whatever fucked up shit Oli might be into tonight seems easier than Louis' worry.

Oli is good to him today. He holds Harry for hours. He lets him cry, and he strokes his hair, and he shushes him and promises that everything's going to be alright. It makes Harry angry, almost; where is this Oli the other times, when he's being cruel and damaging? But it also feels really good for right now, so he tries to hold onto that. 

"Louis will be gone soon enough, alright," Oli tells him. "You don't have to care what he thinks. He'll leave again, and just like last time, he won't come back for you."

"But it's _Louis_ ," Harry cries. "I don't -- I don't want to lose him again, Oli. I don't think I can do it again."

"He's been nothing but bad for you since he's been living with you."

And no, that's not true. Oli feels threatened by Louis so he's saying shit, and Harry doesn't want that part of Oli to come alive anymore than that, so he doesn't respond and just burrows deeper into his side. 

He falls asleep there, and in the morning, Oli wakes him up by grinding up against him, and it makes Harry so fucking angry he's almost blinded with it. He was an emotional wreck last night, and Oli was so, _so_ good to him, and now he just wants to fuck, and that's -- that's wrong, right? Harry doesn't even know at this point. 

Harry makes a big scene, even when he tells himself it's probably not worth it. He shoves Oli away and tells him to fuck off, and then he gets out of bed. As he tries to find his shoes and keys, Oli shouts at him and calls him stupid and Harry screams that he's a fucking prick, and then Harry’s got his shit and he leaves, slamming he door on his way out. 

He cries in the car, because he's terrified of becoming his parents, and he's pretty sure he just ripped a page out of their handbook. 

He's still so wired up when he gets home that he doesn't notice Louis' car in the parking lot, so when he gets home and sees Louis on the couch, he kind of just wants to melt into the floor and stay there. 

"You're supposed to be at _work_ ," Harry says, and his voice sounds rough and wrecked even to him. He stopped crying on the way over, but he's pretty sure that if Louis looks at him wrong, he'll collapse to the ground in a fit of tears. He feels that weak right now. 

Louis looks worried. That's all he knows how to be, apparently. "I called off."

"You can't do that. You just started that job."

"It was important," Louis argues, furrowing his eyebrows. " _You're_ important, Harry. I don't think you realize that."

And it's so, so cliche, and it shouldn't get to him, but it does. He lets out a loud cry and he covers his face with his hand, but it's no use because he can't hide the way his body shakes or his shoulders hunch or his knees almost give out with just a hand. His chest is burning, and he keeps remembering how ashamed Nick made him feel last night and how used Oli made him feel this morning. Even Lindsey made him feel terrible, and that's -- how did he let himself fall this low?

Arms are around him, circling around his shoulders and pulling him forward. Harry resists at first, only for a moment. He lets himself be hugged by Louis, lets himself feel the warmth he's giving him. He wraps his arms around Louis' middle and just clings, exactly like how he used to. 

"I'm going to help you, okay?" Louis says to him, and Harry cries harder and he leans down to rest his forehead on Louis' shoulder. Louis responds by running his hand up and down his back, a lot like Oli was doing last night but this -- this feels like he really means it. "You just need a little bit of help, Harry. That's all."

"Everything is so fucked, Louis, I can't -- you can't fix everything." _You can't fix me_ , he wants to say. That's what it really boils down to, right? Harry's the one who wasted his freedom after he moved. Harry's the one who isolated himself and made shit friends. Harry's the one slices open his skin. He's the problem in all this. The only people -- the _only_ ones he could even possibly blame are his parents, but even that feels a little cheap. Like a cop-out. 

"We'll figure it out, H."

They stand there for a long time, and Harry cries the entire time. You'd think after a while, he'd gain the strength to collect himself or he'd at least run out of tears, but he doesn't. He allows Louis to guide him to his room, and Harry falls into his bed ungracefully. He kicks off his shoes and slips under the blankets, and it feels so fucking good to have Louis crawling in after him. 

"Can you just -- " He can't say it. He can't. He's already let Louis see too much; he can't let Louis in on the fact that he's attention starved, too. That's so fucking childish. 

Louis runs his hand through Harry's hair. "Can I what? I'll do anything, alright? Just tell me what you need."

And Harry wants to, so badly. He wants to tell Louis to just fucking hold him. He shoves his face into his pillow and lets out a rough sob, and he thinks about all those people he's let in his bed, all those people he wished would give him any sort of affection. He thinks of all the times he was denied, and here Louis is, telling him he can ask for anything. 

"Can you please hold me?" Harry finally chokes out, and immediately -- _immediately_ \-- Louis is slotting himself right behind Harry and wrapping his arms around Harry's middle, pulling him as close as possible. He noses at Harry's shoulder, and Harry just lays there, crying quietly and revealing in being touched in a scenario that someone's not going to take something from him. Louis doesn't want his body. 

It feels different to be held by someone who loves him.

He doesn't settle down entirely for another two hours. The sadness crashes into him in waves, and when he finally thinks he has himself together again, another wave is coming for him. Louis makes him feel like it's alright, though. And that means the world to him. 

When Harry does finally settle down for good, Louis slips out of bed and makes them lunch. During the time he's gone, Harry sits up and finds his phone underneath the covers. There's a few texts from Nick and Oli each. 

Oli: _Harry I'm sorry_

_but you totally started that alright_

_if you didn't want to do anything you could have just said_

_come over tmrw at noon_

Harry doesn't know how to feel about it. He knows Oli is just scrambling to fix it (and Harry also knows that he wasn't in the right entirely, either), but he can't help but feel like there's a part of Oli that actually means well and cares about him. 

He does, however, know he's not going anywhere tomorrow at noon. 

Nick: _alright i talked to daniel and maybe i was in the wrong but we both know you need to stop that and i dont know what else to do_

_come over whenever? i'll give you some party favors to make it up to you x_

Louis comes back with grilled cheese sandwiches before Harry can decide if he wants to respond to either of them or not, so Harry sets his phone aside and decides he'll figure it out later. Louis sits back into bed with him, and he hands Harry a plate. 

They eat in complete silence. Harry wishes he could say that it's okay, that he doesn't need to talk, but he fucking hates when everything is quiet. It makes him anxious. 

He regrets thinking that way as soon as Louis takes their plates to the kitchen and comes back with a question for him: "Where do you keep. . . whatever it is that you hurt yourself with?"

It makes his stomach roll violently, and has the urge to tell Louis to fuck off, but he doesn't. He basically asked Louis to help him, or at the very least, accepted his offer of help, and he knows he has to be smart about this. He can't fuck over the one person that might actually give a shit about him. 

(He'll do that later. But for right now, he tries to be good.)

Slowly, Harry sits up in bed again and reaches over to his nightstand. He opens the bottom drawer and grabs the blade. He hasn’t bothered hiding it anymore. It's crusted with dried blood; it makes him cringe. 

"Give it to me, please," Louis says. He's got this serious tone to his voice like he thinks Harry's going to test him on this. He's not; there's nothing he hates more than hurting himself like that. 

He hands Louis the blade, and Louis hides it in his fist carefully like that's enough to protect Harry from it. "Is this the only one?"

Harry nods. He threw the rest out the last time he stopped. He let himself keep one, though, and he realizes that's pretty fucking stupid to do if he was actually serious about quitting. 

“We’re going to figure this out, Harry.”

Harry just shrugs a bit and glances down. Maybe they will. Maybe Louis coming to stay with him is the final straw, and it’ll mark the time in his life where he gets his shit together and stops being like this. Maybe. 

Somehow, he’s got the feeling that that’s not going to be the case. 

-

Oli and self-harming have always, always existed together, so he's expecting to have a hard time seeing him again. He's prepared for it. Maybe seeing Oli entirely is a bad idea, though; Harry was so sure the night after Louis held him that he was done with Oli again, but it's just -- he's known Oli for years. He can't just cut him off like that, can he? He's done it before, but that doesn't mean it's okay. 

So he takes up Oli's offer to go out for drinks, and before he goes, Louis asks him not to do any hard drugs or get entirely shit-faced. Harry's certain he's not going to listen to that bit, because as much as Louis has been making Harry feel good about himself, he's not sure he can let Louis come in and change him completely. 

It's been two weeks since Harry cried on Louis for the first time, and nothing has gotten better but nothing has gotten painstakingly worse, either. He hasn't cut in that time, so that's a start. It's not almost seven months like he was at before he relapsed last, but he tries telling himself that he has to start somewhere. 

He doesn't let Louis question him or talk about the cutting too much. He doesn't like talking about it, and ever since Nick called him disgusting for it, he's scared that Louis will think that, too. 

Louis sleeps in bed with him some nights, holding Harry close. Usually, if he works a morning shift, he'll sleep in his own room, but other times, he'll wander in Harry's room wordlessly and plop in bed with him. That's Harry's favorite part of this, one of the only things that don't make him regret breaking down in front of Louis. Louis makes him feel loved. 

Harry hasn't talked to Nick since then, either. He's not sure why it's easier to do that with him than it is Oli. Nick isn't all bad, he's just -- tough love doesn't work on Harry. It never has. But Nick has been there for him over the years, during Harry's darkest times, and he's probably shit for being so willing to block out Nick like this. 

Oli's at the bar already, so Harry has to get his ID checked by himself outside, and he makes himself look like an idiot. His nervousness makes him look like he's lying, and then he makes the mistake of saying, "It's not -- it's not a fake, I swear." The person checking his ID rolls his eyes and lets him in, and Harry thanks him quietly before walking past him. 

When he’s intoxicated enough, random people at the bar are somewhat easy to talk to. With most of his friends, he can manage to not make himself look like a tit in front of them. Just sometimes, with some people and some situations, his brain stops effectively communicating with his him.

Oli's in a bad mood, and Harry immediately picks up on it. He has this sour look on his face, and he scoffs a little and tells Harry he's late when Harry sits down beside him, even though they never set an exact time. Harry just smiles at him and orders himself a drink without looking the bartender in the eyes. 

They talk a little, but it's stilted and tense. Harry doesn't know why Oli invited him out if he was going to be like this. When Harry leans forward to grab a napkin off the counter to wipe up a few drops of drink he spilled, Oli reaches over to pinch his bum, and okay, Harry thinks. He wants sex. That's fine, he could've just said. Harry doesn't mind getting on his knees in some dingy bathroom in order to put Oli in a better mood. 

When he asks Oli if he wants to head to the bathroom, Oli rolls his eyes. "Such a fucking slut, Jesus."

Harry flinches and looks down at his drink. Alright, maybe he read the situation wrong. He tries to think of something that'll help him regain his footing, but it seems like he already got Oli's blood boiling. 

"You've barely spoken to me in the last two weeks, and you finally come to see me, and for what? Sex?" Oli scoffs and shakes his head. "That's fucked."

"I came here because I wanted to spend time with you," Harry says quietly. 

"With me, or my cock, because -- "

"Oli," Harry whispers, and he moves to rub at his forehead. The bartender is looking at them; it's a slow night, and they’re the most interesting thing at the bar. "I'm sorry, alright. That's not what I meant."

"You're a hypocrite," Oli says coldly, and Harry sighs quietly. Anything he says is going to get torn apart, so he might as well not say anything at all. He stares down at his drink and wonders why he thought tonight would go any differently.

After about a minute of silence, Oli roughly grabs his chin and forces him to look at him, and for a terrifying moment, Harry thinks he's going to get hit. Oli isn't that brand of fucked up, although Harry wouldn’t be shocked if he snapped one day. Maybe today Harry’s going to get by him for real. 

Oli strengthens his grip on Harry's jaw before leaning forward and crashing his lips against Harry's. It's all teeth at first, and Harry tries to keep up with Oli, and before he can manage, Oli digs his teeth into Harry's bottom lip hard, and Harry pulls back, pained and surprised. Oli chases him again, and this time, the kiss is a little less forceful, so Harry allows himself to melt into it, and then Oli grips Harry's thigh roughly, and again, Harry's pulling back. His cuts are a little more healed, and he's only picked one open -- he couldn't sleep, and his brain was spiraling -- but they're still tender, and Oli knows that. 

"Don't do that," Harry says, and the layer of anger hardens on Oli's face. He squeezes Harry's thigh tighter, and his fingers dig into the scar on Harry's inner thigh. 

"Don't tell me what to do."

Before Harry can respond, the bartender grabs Harry's glass and puts it back down on the counter. She does it with enough force that the noise catches Oli's attention, and he looks to her, eyes narrowed. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at him, as she pours more beer into Harry's glass. When she does finally raise her gaze to Oli's, it's fierce, and Oli lets go of Harry's thigh and grabs his own drink. 

After a few tense minutes, Oli has downed both of their beers and he stands. "I'm going to the bathroom," Oli says, and he keeps his voice low. The bartender isn't near them right now, but he might still be intimidated by her. "We'll go back to mine after. Get your coat on."

He leaves, and Harry finds himself pulling his coat on even though he doesn't really want to go to Oli's. He's not being kind today, and Harry doesn't have the energy to deal with the snarky remarks and possessiveness all night. 

"You drive here on your own?" a voice asks, and Harry glances up, startled, to see the bartender in front of him, a towel thrown over her shoulder. 

Harry nods once. 

"I'd leave while I had the chance, then," she says. She takes a step back and shrugs. "That's just me, though. I wouldn't waste my Thursday on a prick like him. Isn't Grey's Anatomy on tonight?"

Harry doesn't know if it is or not, but he knows that she's not actually asking, and that she's probably right. He nods and grabs his wallet and pulls out two twenties and puts them on the counter -- he needs to get a job, burning through his savings like this isn't smart -- and leaves quickly with his head down. 

Louis has the rare day off, so when Harry gets in, he locks the door and heads to Louis' room. He's proud of himself, a bit. 

Louis' laying on his stomach shirtless as he does whatever he's doing on his computer. He's facing away from Harry, and Harry takes the time to look at him. There's not one thing he focuses on; he looks at everything, at the tattoos on his arms and his small socked feet and his shoulder blades. After a moment, Harry collects himself and toes off his shoes before getting into Louis' bed, laying out flat on his back beside him. 

"I didn't even hear you get in," Louis says as he takes his earbuds out. He sets them to the side and frowns at Harry. "You weren't out long. You usually are out all night when you go out with him."

Harry shrugs and glances at Louis' screen. He's watching Netflix. _The Office_ , it looks like. "Oli was being a dick, so, like." He shrugs again and doesn't take his eyes off of the screen. 

Louis sighs quietly. "Are you sure he isn't just a dick straight out?"

"He's my friend," Harry defends lamely. He's not even sure why. "I've known him since high school, and he's just a bit. . . strange, I suppose."

"I didn't realize you two knew each other for so long," Louis says. He huffs out a breath. "You'd think after all this time, you'd realize that he's a shithead that's not worth your time." 

"Hey," Harry snaps, because he's not in the mood to be judged like that. He sits up, and before he can make it very far, Louis wraps his arm around Harry's waist and pulls him back down. 

"Don't go," Louis says quietly. "I'm sorry. Don't go." He shifts the screen so Harry can see it better and unplugs his earbuds. "Stay and watch this with me. Please." He pets at Harry's stomach gently, and when Harry turns slowly on his stomach, Louis starts rubbing at Harry's lower back. 

Before he presses play, Louis looks over to him. He looks hesitant. "I don't understand where your self-esteem went," he says, and he doesn't sound judgmental. He sounds confused and sad. "With your dad, you always knew you deserved better. Most of the time, anyway. I don't know why you can't see that anymore."

"Oli and Nick are nothing like my dad."

"You're scared of Oli," Louis points out gently. "I saw it that day, when he came over with the pizzas. You're scared of him."

"They're my only friends, alright," Harry says, embarrassed. 

Louis shakes his head and nudges him. "Not true. Not anymore." 

Harry takes a deep breath and nods. Maybe Louis' got a point. 

-

The urge to cut gets really, really scary sometimes. 

It's not something easy to explain. It's just, sometimes, it's all he can think about. And that's the reason why he allowed himself to keep one blade last time; he's terrified that he's going to break and reach for the next best thing, like a knife or something, and he's not well practiced in using anything else. 

But last time he didn't have Louis standing in his kitchen and singing Oasis loud enough for Harry to hear from his bedroom, and Harry tries to hold on to that like his last life line. 

For a little while, he kind of just rotates around Louis. If Louis' in the kitchen, Harry's sitting at the table. If Louis' in the living room, Harry's next to him on the couch. He tries to be discreet about it, but after an hour of that, Louis glances at him. 

"You seem weird," Louis says. "Did you sleep well last night?"

"Fine." He's been taking his sleeping pills every night now, and not just waiting to use them when it's four o'clock in the morning and he can't sleep. 

"Do you want to talk about something?"

"No," Harry says, shaking his head. "No. I'm just -- " he makes a gesture with his hands. "Feel a bit wound up today, is all."

So Louis demands they play a board game to give him something to focus on, and then when he finds that Harry has no board games, he decides that the next best thing is to play cards. Harry has a deck of cards, for whatever reason, so they play with those up until Louis has to go to work. 

Harry has no intention of coming clean about what he's thinking about, so he's not entirely sure why when Louis asks for the fourth time if he needs anything, he tells him that he can't stop thinking about it. Louis not a fucking idiot, and gathers what 'it' is fairly quickly. 

He turns serious quickly, and he sets his keys down and comes over to Harry. He's in his scrubs, ready to go help people who actually deserve it, and Harry wonders why Louis' giving him any more of his time. Louis bends down in front of Harry from where Harry's sat at the dining table, and Harry stares down at him, fumbling with his fingers. 

Louis grabs his hands in his own and squeezes them. "Please don't," he says. "Please, please don't hurt yourself. With anything. And I'm not -- I know it's not easy. I know it's an addiction of sorts, and I know you use it to cope, but please, please don't go back to that." He squeezes Harry's fingers harder. "And don't go to Oli. Don't text him, and don't let him come over here, and don't let him talk you into going to his."

Harry swallows thickly and turns his head. He's not sure how Louis connected Oli to his self-harming issue. 

Louis reaches up and tilts Harry's head back down to look at him. It's so much more gentle than how Oli did it a few nights ago. He thumbs over Harry's cheekbone, and Harry leans into it. "Can you promise me you won't do that? Or at the very least, you'll call me and talk to me if you absolutely feel like you can't help it?"

Harry nods once. "Okay. I will. Promise." 

He feels so, so stupid, but also really looked after, so it balances out a bit. And part of him knows that if he actually was going to cut, he wouldn’t bother with running it past Louis first. That’s not how this works. Louis can’t expect that of him. And even if Harry did call Louis, he knows that Louis probably wouldn’t know what to say and it’d result in Harry cutting anyway. Still the sentiment is there. Louis cares about him. 

"Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me," Louis says, and he's smiling a bit now. "I don't -- I don't know much about this. I don't know how to help, exactly, but if you -- if you ever need anything, _anything_ , I'll do it for you."

"You've already done enough, Louis. I'm fine. It's stupid."

"It's not," Louis disagrees. "And I really have to get to work, but please, please don't do anything like that to yourself."

'I won't," Harry promises, and he's pretty sure that's true. "I won't. Get to work, Lou. I'll probably just take a nap."

"Okay. Okay." Louis stands and strokes Harry's cheekbone again before letting go of him and grabbing his keys again. Before he leaves, he writes a name and number on a sticky note and puts it on the fridge. "Zayn's working with me tonight, so if you can't reach me, call him -- or text him, whatever's easier for you -- and he'll come get me. Alright?"

Harry nods. This feels like too much, but it's okay. He tries to tell himself that this is okay. "Go to work. I'll be fine."

Louis goes, and Harry takes two sleeping pills before laying down on the couch and falling asleep.

THEN. 

There’s not an exact reason as to why Harry breaks that night. It’s not like he gets hit harder than normal, or gets in a fight with anyone, or fails a test. It’s none of that. He just. . . It’s too much. He’s had enough. And tonight, he has the energy to do something about it. 

He goes out the back door, knowing full well that if he went through the living room where his dad is screaming at his mum currently, he’d become the new target. So he slips out the back, making sure the door stays silent, and begins to walk.

It feels like he shouldn’t know his destination, but he does. There’s a bridge not too far from here, overlooking some water. He and Louis walked by it a few weeks back. He doesn’t know how deep it is, but deep enough for Louis to feel uncomfortable with the idea of going swimming in it. And if it’s not deep enough, maybe that’s better. Maybe hitting some rocks will do the trick. Or maybe the water will be cold enough to shock the fuck out of his system until he dies. He doesn’t fucking know, alright. He doesn’t fucking know. 

He gets there within twenty-five minutes, and there’s nobody there. Of course not. Who would come to a bridge late at night? Aside from people like him, people who are looking for a way out, nobody else would have a reason to be here. 

His chest constricts painfully as he sits down on the wrong side of the short, busted, wooden fence that’s meant to protect people from falling in on accident. It does nothing for those looking to do it on purpose. He’ll climb to the other side eventually, he will, it’s just -- he needs a minute. Not to think, because he doesn’t really want to think about this. He just needs a minute. Just one. 

He clicks open his phone to see some worried texts from Louis about forty-five minutes since he’s left home. He was texting Louis like he always does, telling him about what was going on at home, and the texts from Harry just stopped. He understands why that’d concern Louis. Concern him enough to text Anne, asking if Harry’s still home. She said no, obviously, because he’s not, and Louis’ texts become a bit frantic after that. _If you were coming to mine, you’d be here by now. Where are you? Please text me back. You’re scaring me._

He doesn’t text Louis to say not to worry, or tell him that he shouldn’t worry. He doesn’t text him goodbye. He doesn’t text him anything, is the thing, which is why it’s beyond confusing and absolutely terrifying when headlights approach him and the car slows down. He grips the fence tightly and stands, swallows thickly. What if it’s some fucking man, here to kill him or -- 

He barely even gets to explore that possibility before Louis’ getting out of the car and shutting the door. Harry’s confused as fuck, and he tries to work out how the hell Louis could find him. And then Louis comes closer, and it’s -- no. Harry came here for a reason, he came here for a fucking reason, Louis can’t just show up and try to fix it. He can’t. And why would he want to? Why would he want Harry to go through anymore of it?

Louis immediately freezes in place as soon as Harry makes an attempt to get over to the other side of the fence. It wouldn’t be hard, not for someone his height. He has one foot against the bottom plank on the fence, and if Louis comes closer, all he has to do is use that to get up and over and it’d be fucking done. Everything would be done. The rocks, the cold, or the water -- whatever can get to him first, it’d be over with. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Louis says, chest heaving. “You get the fuck in this car right now, Haz. Harry, please. Seriously.”

Harry’s crying, now. He doesn’t know why. There’s nothing to cry about. “Why?”

“Because you can’t leave me,” Louis says, like that’s the easiest thing in the world. He loves Louis to death, he does, but is that enough to keep him fighting? He’s not sure. He really isn’t. Does that make him awful?

“You can’t fucking leave me,” Louis repeats, sounding more torn up. He’s going to cry, too. “We don’t get to just leave each other, Harry. We can’t. I’d never leave you, so you can’t leave me. That’s not fucking fair. That’s so not fucking fair.”

Harry lets out a loud cry. _That’s_ not fair. Louis making this about him isn’t fair. And he knows that Louis’ probably just saying whatever he thinks he needs to say to get Harry to get in the fucking car. He knows that. 

“I’m so sick of it, Louis,” he cries, already feeling himself leaning away from the water. He can’t want it that bad if he’s able to be talked down from it so quickly. “It’s just going to get worse.”

“It’s not,” Louis promises, gentle. “How can it? You’ll be out for uni soon, love, and you’ll -- we’ll have so much fun, wherever we end up. This will all be behind you one day. It’ll get better.”

“I want it to be better _now._ ”

Louis gives him this horrible, twisted smile. “I know, H, and I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve any of this. But you do deserve to get through it, alright? You deserve to reach the happy end of all this. And you’ll get there, babe, you will. You have to. And I’ll be right there with you, and we’ll -- we have to figure this out now so we can get there together. I don’t want to get there without you. Please don’t make me do this without you.”

He’s sitting in Louis’ car not even five minutes later, crying quietly in the passenger’s seat and listening to the soft music Louis put on after Harry begged him not to talk.

NOW. 

Harry sees Louis looking for other flats a few days later, and he hates how it immediately knocks the air out of his lungs.

He should've seen it coming. Louis only said he'd be staying for a month, maybe two. It's been a little over a month, so Harry shouldn't be surprised. What, did he really expect Louis to want to live here longer than he needed to? Because that's just stupid. Louis' a nurse and he has enough money to live in a flat much larger than Harry's, and he wouldn't have to share that flat with someone as miserable as Harry.. 

Still, he feels so stupid. He let Louis blindside him once by leaving, and he shouldn't have let it happen again. 

After that, after seeing Louis planning on abandoning him again, he pulls back from him. Of course he does; he's not going to let himself get burned more than he has to. He doesn't talk to Louis about anything personal anymore, and he gets snippy when Louis asks him if he's okay or if he needs anything. Any amount of progress Louis made with him vanishes immediately. 

The only thing that doesn't change is Harry allowing Louis to still come cuddle him up at night. Louis might be leaving, but he's here now, and Harry won't let himself waste that. 

He gets back in touch with Nick again, and he starts entertaining Oli's texts and calls more. Louis had told him that he didn't need them, that he was Harry's friend too, but he's not sure that's true anymore. He can't ruin the only friendships he has for someone who doesn't want to stick around. 

-

"You're going out with Nick again?" Louis asks, and there's an edge to his voice. 

Harry just nods. 

"That's the fourth night this week."

"So?" Harry asks, narrowing his eyes at him. Louis' still acting like he cares. He's acting like he's not leaving again. He still hasn’t told Harry himself. "What, am I not allowed to see my friends anymore?"

Louis looks stunned. He opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it. Lately, whenever Harry lashes out on him, he always looks so fucking surprised. "Of course you can," he says after a moment. "It's just. . . I thought we agreed that they aren't actually your friends."

" _You_ said that. _I_ didn't."

"Okay," Louis says, backing off. He looks so confused. So hurt. Harry doesn't understand why. "Okay. I'm sorry." He gives Harry a small smile and says, "I hope you have fun, then." He leaves the kitchen to go to his room, and Harry stands there, feeling breathless. 

-

He's too fucking high. That's about the only thought he can manage to string together. Nick either gave him too much, or it's laced with something else that Harry isn't used to, because Harry's taken ecstasy before and it didn't get him _this_ fucked up. And Nick recognized it, too, so he helped him up the stairs and laid him down in his bed. 

"I'd be an awful host if I stayed up here with you the whole night," Nick said, standing up. "Just sleep it off, alright? You'll be fine." He left then, because he had a party to tend to and Harry was being a buzzkill. 

He's not completely out of touch. He knows where he is and how he got here, and he knows that he'll probably be fine. But he can't stop clenching his teeth, and his jaw is all sore now, and he can feel his heart racing. He's so cold, too, but he doesn't have the energy to get himself under Nick's covers. 

Harry's not sure how long he stays there, but he feels a little less shit when the door opens and light pours into the room. He lifts his head up, and his jaw is still throbbing even though he managed to stop clenching his teeth together a few minutes ago. 

Nick is standing there, looking annoyed, and Harry doesn't know why until he sees Oli standing behind him. 

"Don't know why you thought I'd want him at my house, but Oli's here," Nick says. He huffs out a breath. "You're beginning to be more trouble than you're worth, Harry."

Harry lets his head fall back against the pillow and closes his eyes. He didn’t text Oli. Someone else must’ve. And Harry’s being blamed for it, and Nick’s being a dick to him about it because of it. He doesn’t have the energy to care about it right now. 

"He's going to drive you home," Nick tells him. "You're too wasted, and since he's here, he might as well be of some use."

There's a loud scoff, and then Oli's snapping something Harry doesn't have the energy to process, and Nick lets out a loud sigh. "Just make sure you see me before you leave, alright? I've got some weed for you." And then Nick leaves, and Harry doesn't move. 

Oli crawls into bed next to him, and Harry glances at him tiredly. He doesn't seem angry or like he's in a bad mood. Usually, if he is, his mouth is flattened and his face is drawn up in a scowl. Right now he looks soft, and Harry reaches out to touch his face. Oli laughs a little, and he grabs Harry's hand off his face to press a kiss to it. 

Harry closes his eyes. That feels nice. 

For a little while, Oli peppers tiny little kisses all over Harry. On his arms, his shoulder, his neck. His cheeks. Harry feels like he's floating still, and Oli's mouth adds to the nice feeling. He lets Oli pull off his shirt, and he sighs happily as Oli kisses all over his chest, over his nipples, on his belly. 

It takes Oli a long time to give Harry a proper kiss on the lips. Harry's reminded of how out of it he is when it seems like an insane amount of effort to kiss Oli back, but Oli doesn't seem to mind it. 

They make out lazily for what feels like forever. Eventually, Oli takes his shirt off as well, and Harry tries to run his hand over his chest but it felt like too much work, so he settles for tucking his fingers in the waistband of Oli's jeans. 

He's not sure why Nick comes back upstairs, back to his room, but when he does, he's furious and Harry doesn't even understand why until halfway through Oli and Nick's screaming match. He just lays there, listening to them shout at each other, and then Nick yells, "He's barely fucking conscious, you fucking pervert." And, well. Harry does feel awfully tired. And he's still too high to be able to tell Nick to calm down like he wants to, so maybe Nick has a point. 

"It's not like I was going to fuck him," Oli argues. 

"No? You looked pretty fucking close to it."

Harry's freezing still, so he opens his eyes and sits up enough to find his t-shirt. He grabs it, and he struggles to get it to work with him. He's trying to flip it right side out, and it's not cooperating. 

"He can't even get his fucking shirt on," Nick seethes, and there's some scuffling. Harry glances up, alarmed, to see Oli stumbling back like he's been shoved. Harry doesn't like that, doesn't like that at all, and he feels a lump of fear thicken up in his throat. 

There's some more shouting, and Nick keeps telling him to leave, to just get out, and eventually, Oli listens and goes, not before slamming the door. Nick curses loudly and there's a long second before he comes over to Harry and sits on the bed next to him. He looks gentle, all the sudden, and Harry doesn't understand it because he just pushed Oli a moment ago. 

"Let me help you," he says, and Harry allows him to grab the shirt from his fingers and help him put it on. He feels a little warmer with it on, and he goes to lay back down, but Nick shakes his head and forces him to sit up by grabbing his arms and holding him up. "I want to get you home, love. Is Louis home tonight?"

"I don't remember."

"Okay," Nick says. "That's okay. If he's not, I'll stay with you until he gets back."

Harry doesn't remember how they went from Nick's bed to the couch in Harry's flat, but he does know it took one of Nick's mates helping him get Harry in the car. There's a gap in his memory, and Harry understands now why Nick got so mad about Oli trying to have sex with Harry when he was like that. It's not that big of a deal -- to Harry, at least, because nothing happened -- but he knows he probably wouldn't feel that way if something _did_ happen. 

Harry's plastered to Nick's chest and there's two blankets draped over him because he was cold. Nick talks to him the entire time, softly like he's not sure if Harry's awake or not, and Harry listens the best he can. At one point, Nick presses a kiss to Harry's head and says he won't give him ecstasy again. He sounds a bit guilty, although Harry's not sure why; he's never had a problem with ecstasy before. 

After a few hours, Harry's sobered up and his brain feels clear again, but he doesn't move from Nick's chest and Nick doesn't ask him to. They stay there, cuddled up, and Nick turns on a movie even though it's one in the morning and there's probably a mess to clean up at home. 

Halfway through the movie, Harry lets out a quiet sigh and says, "Louis' leaving again. I saw him looking at flats the other day."

Nick lets out a quiet snort. "So that's why you've been up my arse the last week. I was wondering what made you forgive me."

"I don't know why I didn't think he'd leave me again," Harry whispers, even though he does. He thought that, since Louis held him at night and called him important, that meant Louis wanted to stick around. Harry got attached too quickly to the idea, and that's his fault. Louis never told him he'd stay. 

"I've told you before you could just live with me."

Harry shakes his head against Nick's chest. "It's not that."

"I know," Nick says. "I know I'm not Louis."

Harry's not sure what that means, exactly, but he's also sure that it's the truth. 

Louis gets in around six thirty in the morning, and Harry pretends to be asleep as Nick gets out from under him and speaks to Louis in the kitchen. Their voices are low, but Harry manages to catch most of what they say. 

"He got pretty fucked up," Nick says. "Not dangerously so, but. I'm sorry anyway."

Louis sounds disappointed. "He has to start looking after himself better."

"I know, I know."

"He didn't use to be like this."

"No?" Nick asks, sounding surprised. 

"He was such a good kid," Louis says, and Harry feels his heart give. "He barely drank, and he never smoked weed with me. He was always so nervous when it came to anything to do with sex, and he -- he kept his head down, you know? He didn't talk to very many people, and never went out on his own looking for trouble. And he had goals for himself. Uni, and all that. He wanted to be successful."

"Wasn't his dad, like. . . you know?"

Harry cringes inwardly. 

"Yeah. Yeah, he was. Beat the shit out of him all the time." There's a quiet sigh and then Louis says, "I shouldn't be airing out his business, sorry."

"No, no. It's fine. I get it. But, Louis. . . Oli is a shit person. He's not good for Harry at all."

Louis sighs again.

"He messes with his head," Nick continues. "Like, I don't even know how he manages to get Harry so twisted up. It's almost impressive. And Harry. . . he always goes right back to him."

"He doesn't think he has anyone else."

"Because he doesn't," Nick says softly, and Harry shoves his face in the couch pillow as he tries to will himself not to cry. "He doesn't even have a family."

"He does, though," Louis argues. "His sister misses him like mad."

Harry sits up then, because he's not going to hear anymore of that. He doesn't want Nick knowing anything about Gemma other than she's his sister, because talking about her gets Harry worked up. She _left_ him. She left him alone with their father, and Harry will never, ever forgive her for that. And she took Theo.

Nick and Louis' voice fall silent, and Harry swallows hard before looking towards the kitchen, where the both of them are standing. Nick even has the decency to look a bit sheepish. 

"Are you alright?" Louis asks softly. Harry doesn’t even glance at him, just goes to the bathroom. Harry can’t trust that Louis actually cares anymore. 

-

That's how the final three weeks of Louis living with him go: Harry giving him the cold shoulder, going out and doing stupid things, and Louis being worried. He wishes he could say it ended differently than that, but it didn't. And to think that it was going so well there, for a moment. To think that he thought Louis could help. To think that Harry thought he could turn his life around, if only a little. 

The day Louis moves out, Harry helps him pack his car, because he's not a total prick. He doesn't talk to Louis much, though, because he thinks that's too close to forgiving him for leaving again, and Harry's not ready to do that. He was too immature to do it the first time, and he's still too immature to do it now. 

Louis tells him to call. Harry tells him he will. "No, Harry, I'm serious. Please keep in touch with me," Louis says, and Harry says of course he will. He hugs Harry, and he thanks him for being a good host, and then he gets in his car and leaves, and the first thing Harry does after going back inside and crying hysterically with a joint burning his fingertips is call Oli, even though it's only been three weeks since Harry had sworn that he was done with him again. 

They get high, and they have sex, and Oli slaps him across the face again even though Harry has told him so many fucking times not to do that. And then Harry rolls over and grabs his phone off the nightstand, and Louis' name is sitting there with a text, one that Harry will ignore for a lot longer than three weeks. 

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Nick asks him, four days later. Apparently Nick and Louis swapped phone numbers before Louis moved out, and Louis already ratted on him for ignoring him. "You don't want better for yourself, do you?"

And no. No, Harry doesn't. Not anymore. 

-

seven months later. 

He's already thrown up twice. His skin feels too tight, and he's completely gone, but he's smart enough to know that he shouldn't itch, even if he really wants to. He can't stay on one thought for too long, and he can barely keep his eyes open. 

Falling asleep in the alley behind some dingy pub in Brighton doesn't sound like an intelligent idea, even to him right now, so he tries to keep his eyes open. He doesn't know what to do long-term, because Oli already left with someone else, but he knows he has to keep his eyes open for right now. 

Nick won't answer his calls. Neither will Louis. And Harry even resorted to calling Gemma, only once, and she didn't answer either. He left a voicemail anyway, hopeful. A part of him knows that it's because it's two o'clock in the morning and they're all sleeping -- Louis might even be at work -- but the rotten part of his brain convinces him it's because nobody cares. 

He lays there, slumped against the wall, for about ten more minutes, and then throws up again. It's hard to move his head to the side, and out of fear he's going to die here due to choking on his own vomit, he fumbles through his contacts list again and tries to find someone who might be able to help him. 

Zayn. The name doesn't ring a bell at first, but when he remembers that he's the bloke who Louis told to call if he needed him while he was at work, he immediately presses _call._

"Hello?"

Harry leans his head against the wall in relief. "Hi," he croaks out. 

"Who is this?"

"Are you at work?" Harry asks, and his voice sounds absolutely fucked, even to him. Fucking hell, he's legitimately scared he might not make it through this high. 

"Who is this?" Zayn asks again. 

"Is Lou with you?"

" _Who is this_?" He sounds impatient now, like he's going to hang up at any moment, and Harry takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself long enough to get himself help. 

"I need Louis," he chokes out, and tears rush to his eyes. He presses a shaking hand to his head. "Tell him it's important. Need him."

Zayn sighs. "Louis Tomlinson?"

"Yes. Yes. Him. Need him. So bad."

"And who is this?"

Harry lets out another long breath. He doesn't like how hard it is to do that. "Harry."

There's a quiet, "Oh," and then some noise from Zayn's end of the line. Harry listens, trying desperately not to close his eyes. "Louis, mate, you need to come here," Zayn says, and he sounds concerned. "I don't -- I'll take over, alright, it's fine." He's already speaking quietly, but he says, "It's Harry, mate," even quieter. 

Louis' voice is so loud when he asks, "Are you okay?" a few seconds later. It makes Harry flinch. 

"I'm so high, Louis. I'm so -- " he lets out a loud sob and he presses the heel of his palm into his eye. "I don't even know where I _am_." He's scared now, fully and properly. He doesn't want to die here. He doesn't want to fucking die at all. 

There’s a short pause. "At all?"

"I'm in Brighton. That's -- that's all I know."

"Who are you with?"

"Nobody. I'm outside, and -- "

There's a loud scoff. "Jesus Christ, Harry, do not tell me you're sitting outside by yourself in Brighton at two o'clock in the morning. Go -- _go anywhere_ , fuck. Find a shop that's open."

"I can't walk, Lou. I can't." 

He probably could manage it, if he could stand. Standing sounds completely impossible, though. 

"Call the police. Please."

"No," Harry spits, his eyes shooting open. "No, no." He cries harder, and Louis sighs. 

"I don't know what else I can do."

Harry twists to lay on the ground. It's probably not smart, if he's trying not to fall asleep, but he doesn't want to be sitting up anymore. Besides, if he throws up again, it'll be less work to move his neck. "Can you come get me? Please?"

"Brighton is a goddamn hour and half away from me, Harry, and I'm at fucking work." There's a loud huff and then Louis says, "Tell me where you are and I'll drive over."

Harry's not fucking dumb though. He's high, yes, but he's not an idiot. And he can’t believe that Louis thinks he’s that dense. "You're gonna call the police on me if I tell you where I am."

"Goddammit -- yes. Yes, I am going to do that, because I'm not going to have you die in the middle of Brighton because you got too fucking high. Again. What are you even high on, by the way?"

Harry lets out a small whimpering noise. "I don't know. He gave me something and I just took it."

"Who’s he?"

"Oli."

"Christ, Harry." He sounds properly worried now. "Where is Oli now?"

"He left the pub with a guy about an hour ago. He won't -- won't answer any of my calls."

"What's the name of the pub you were at?"

Harry swallows hard, trying to remember. "Don't remember."

"Think harder."

"The sign is pink." He's staring at it now, from behind. He can't make out what it says. "And it's circular."

"Okay. Okay, Harry. I'm going to call the police though, alright? And they're going to help you. I'm driving to Brighton now, so you won't be alone too long, okay?"

Harry chokes on a sob. "Please don't. Please don't, Lou. Please, please don't. I shouldn't have called you."

"I'm pretty sure you should've, Hazza."

Harry hears him talk to the ambulance for the next few minutes, probably on his own phone, and Harry cries steadily. He's going to get arrested, isn't he? He doesn't have anything on him, but he's high, and he's pretty sure that's enough to get put in jail for. Is it? God, he doesn't even know. 

"Alright, Hazza, they're going to come get you, okay? They're pretty sure they know what bar you're talking about." 

Harry shoves his cheek against the cement and lets out a painful cry. "Are they going to arrest me? Am I -- am I going to get in trouble, Lou? I don't want to get in any trouble."

"Don't do anything stupid and you'll be fine, okay?" Louis tells him sternly. "Don't run, and don't fight them off. Don't be disrespectful. Let them help you, okay?"

"I don't wanna be arrested, Lou."

"You won't be, love. Promise."

Harry cries hysterically when the ambulance pulls up to the front of the pub and people in uniforms come over to him. He doesn't do anything other than cry, except for when they take his phone away and he gets panicked because he just wants to keep talking to Louis and he grabs one of their wrists. He remembers what Louis said and he lets go and then just cries harder inside the ambulance.

They ask him a lot of questions he doesn't know how to answer. His brain has completely collapsed on itself now, and the only thing he can manage to say is that he's so, so sorry.

"I'm sorry," he keeps repeating, and the woman hovering over him taking his blood pressure looks at him sadly. "I'm so sorry. So sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

-

When he wakes, Louis is there, and Harry bursts in a fit of tears almost immediately.

It makes the nurse doing something near his bed jump in surprise, as does Louis. He's on him in an instant, though, moving to sit on the edge of the hospital bed to stroke his face and tell him that he's okay and that he's safe. Harry pushes himself up to a sitting position and clings to Louis desperately, crying into his shoulder and clawing at his back. 

"Do you know how fucking high you were, Harry?" Louis asks him, voice tight. "There was so much different shit in your blood that they're surprised your heart didn't give out."

"I didn't mean to. I -- "

"How many times do you have to learn you can't trust Oli? He could've killed you. Do you understand that?"

Later on, after Louis has assured him that he's not going to jail and that he'll drive him back to London, Harry's talking to a doctor and he's taking some sort of test and pretending like he doesn't know it's almost the exact same test he was given at the therapy clinic's office while he was at uni. He lies on almost all the questions, and when the doctor leaves, Louis gives him a hard look. 

"I don't want to end up in the psych ward," Harry says, sniffing. He leans back against the pillows and lets out a quiet sigh.

"But you need help, H. Serious, professional help."

Harry lets out a wet laugh and shakes his head. Louis sighs and reaches out to squeeze his fingers. 

"I talked to your mum to tell her what happened,” Louis says. “I wasn’t going to, but Gemma called me freaking out, and I -- I just thought it’d be easier if I talked to your mum myself. And Harry,” he lets out a quiet sigh, “she told your dad, too, and he sounded really fucking angry.”

"Oh, God," Harry cries, fear freezing in his veins. And then he remembers he's not a child anymore, and he shakes his head sternly. The tears stay stubbornly running down his cheeks. "It doesn't matter," he says. "I haven't seen him in years, it doesn't matter. He can't fucking touch me anymore."

"I know, love," Louis whispers, squeezing his fingers again. "I know that. But I thought you would want to know.." Louis runs his hands through Harry's hair and leans down to kiss his fingers. "And someone named Anna keeps calling you."

"That's my boss," he says around a tired sigh. He reaches around Louis to grab his phone off the table and opens it. He should probably tell her he's not coming in, even though it's already hours passed when he was supposed to start his shift. He texts her that he's not coming in today because he's feeling poorly, and he apologizes for not giving her a heads up. He hasn’t been at this job long, he can’t fuck it up. He works as a cashier at a floral shop; he’s very replaceable. 

He clicks out of those messages and sees that he has other texts from his mum, Gemma, Nick and Oli. 

He goes to Oli's first. _Nick told me you got taken to the hospital. Hope you're good. Don't give them my name._ He resists the urge to snap at him for being so cold and clicks on Nick's next. There's twenty new messages, so he only reads the last few. 

_I'm serious about you living with me. Someone needs to keep an eye out on you._

_You scared the fuck out of me. Thank Louis for me again._

_Call me when you aren't dead to the world_

Harry's not sure how living with Nick would do him any good. Nick has parties all the time, and Nick is also literally a drug dealer. He's not sure how good of an eye Nick could keep on him, but he's also not entirely opposed to the idea. He's been lonely ever since Louis moved out, more so than normal. Hence the more-reckless-than-normal behavior he displayed last night. 

"Is my mum mad at me?" Harry asks, voice small, as he sets his phone back on the table without opening her messages and finding out for himself. 

Louis keeps his face neutral. His mum must be livid and he just doesn’t want to tell Harry. "Gemma's pretty freaked, so. You should probably call her when you feel up to it."

"Louis," Harry mumbles. He pulls the blankets over his shoulders, and Louis must think he's cold because he leans down to pull the blanket over Harry's feet. "Just -- how mad is she?"

"Not mad. Worried," Louis says, giving him a tight smile. "She wants you to move back to Holmes Chapel, which you obviously aren't going to do."

Harry scoffs and shakes his head. "I would never go back there. She still doesn't get that."

“I understand,” he whispers. A few minutes later, Louis tells him to get more sleep, and Harry doesn’t think he’ll be able to until he does.

-

After that, Louis is a little harder to shake off again. 

He's more insistent this time. He checks up constantly. When Harry doesn't answer his calls, Louis shows up randomly to his flat. If Harry pretends like he isn't home, well, Louis uses the key he never gave back to get inside. Harry wonders if that was intentional. 

After about a month of being unable to get Louis to be gone and stay gone again, Harry's close to just giving in to it. There's no point in shutting Louis out. He's not proving anything to anyone by ignoring the help he clearly needs. And then Louis' attempts start to taper off, long bored of Harry refusing any help, and they go back to ignoring each other again. Properly this time, like how it had been for years after Louis left for uni. 

Harry can't say he expected it to go any differently.

-

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!  
> leave a comment if you feel like it :D stay safe everyone!


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